Blog-o-s-affair!!

For the last few months, I have been in a true blue blogging funk. Though I can’t really put my finger on the exact reason, but I just didn’t feel like posting - partly because I think I started blogging to vent out my creative frustration and primarily because the professional front has been a bit too demanding. Moreover, despite best efforts, I have been unable to get into the circus - blog stats, views, ratings, technrati etc etc. Ofcourse, I chose not to, but the sheer frustration of not getting a hang of something pumps out the juice of excitement from it. Add to it, the lack of any pestering loyal readers, and one has the perfect set up for procrastination.

Until... A fellow blogger and two men I know piped in and rapped me shrewdly (well, metaphorically).

“Do you think you need to tell me something?” questioned a fellow blogger (who feigned friendship) on FB chat. Not able to decipher her sudden curiosity, I asked her what I needed to tell her! The response to her initial question was an open invitation to her to bombard me with her volley of nonsensical sawaal(s). Apparently, the woman, after having read each of my posts carefully, had developed schizophrenia-kind of symptoms and starting believing that there was more to my “highly-interesting” life than what my blog stated. When informed that the “information” given through my various blog posts was nothing but the truth with no latent attachments, the woman started throwing fits of disbelief. The only way to provide her some relief was to block her, which I did.

The next one was a friend-turned-foe. "OHHHKAYYY... So you’ve got 57 proposals till now?" he yelled over the phone in an accusing tone, as if getting marriage proposals was a blasphemy or rarest of rare crime!!

Though the statement was enough to jolt me out of the deep laze-induced slumber, I passed off the jerk as yet another aspiring detective, out on the prowl to make life miserable for people like me!!

But men being men, they just cannot refrain from poking their noses into the businesses of the women they know even remotely.

So there was yet another one, using my blog to spy on me and my activities. Now, this second man, is neither a friend nor foe. He is one of the prospective grooms that I bumped into through a matrimonial site but couldn't decide if I should give him a chance or not. Before I could even start liking him, the bloke showed his colours. He decided to go through every word on my blog so that he can have a fair idea about what exactly I have been up to all these 30 years of my life - as if I would have lied if he ever asked me!! Worse, he prepared a questionnaire to stump me with his shrewdness and started hurling his doubts through messages. I patiently and honestly replied to his suspicion-loaded questions for a bit but lost it after he refused to believe my answers to be true.

Well - to each his own!! I have never cared and will never give a damn to such filthily suspicious souls. So, for me they do not exist.

But the incidents of attempted “spying” have set my mind clock ticking. Am I giving the peeping toms/lucy(s) a lavish treat by posting stuff on my blog not anonymously and giving them a chance to dissect my life in layers? Or is a great medium to allow the creeps to read and then display the rainbow hues of their true characters?

I am confused!!

Rewind!!

Ohk, so I was in the flashback mode yesterday, trying to take stock of how the last few years have been.

And I realised that the past 6 years have been much more than just action-packed.

Here's why:

- 3 degrees (2nd and 1st university ranks in the two masters that I did: my only claim to fame in academics, that too, by sheer fluke. Hence, the show off. Forgive :P)

- 6 jobs

- 4 cities

- 11 rented accommodations (hostels and PGs mostly)

- 2 awards

- 6 memorable trips

- 2 boyfriends (1 at a time *giggles*)

- 9 attractions  

- 8 heart breaks 

- 137 proposals 

- 57 prospective grooms (Oh yes, I'm a freak to have counted 'em) 

- 2 friends-for-life

- 1 god-daughter

- God-daughter's wedding

- 1 son-in-law

- 2 cars (1 at a time, both dad's gifts)

- Absolute ownership of my own room/TV/ AC/ wardrobe etc etc (cz di got married *guffaws*)

- 1 pet (my cutie Tobo)

- 10 major accidents (including one near fatal)

- 7 fractures (which include left wrist - 2, right foot - 2, right shoulder, right elbow, some part of the skull)

- Disc problem

- Several major and minor injuries (thankfully no scars)

- 3 near-death experiences

- 1 kidnapping attempt (foiled by the Super Heroine - Yours Truly)

- 1 snatching attempt  (foiled by the Super Heroine - Yours Truly)

- 1 acid attack  (foiled by the Super Heroine - Yours Truly)

- 1 armed assault  (foiled by the Super Heroine - Yours Truly)

- Countless pangas

- 20-something death threats (from people from various walks of life)

- 3 defamation cases (filed by subjects of my different news stories)

- Several successful stories

- Thousands of well-wishers

- Handful of detractors

- Millions of good wishes

- Precious sources

- 10 kilos gain

Phew...that was a bit too much, esp the last one x-(

Dichotomy... Oh That's Me!!

I am a puzzle… wrapped up in an enigma blahblahblah…

I am right-handed… but I eat food left-handed.

I am very learned in grammar… but I make up words.

I am very grounded… but I daydream constantly.

I love all animals… but I truly hate my neighbour's cat.

I love tattoos… but I have none.

I have solid self-esteem… but I dislike most pictures of myself.

I have an artistic, non-linear, free-for-all personality… but when my mind is frazzled and confused, I do Find-A-Word puzzles in a strict, methodical, regimented way.

I adore makeup… but I do not wear it very often.

I love seeing movies in the theatre… but I only go if someone else takes me.

I have a positive outlook… but sometimes I am absolutely certain that the world is both, already in hell and positively irredeemable.

I love beaches… but I rarely go.

I am proud of my life, but also prone to POFFs: Profound Overwhelming Feelings of Failure.

Choice... What's that?

The Indian race is faced with a cruel choice: work or daytime Doordarshan.
- Unknown

I know the above maxim no longer stands true, because there is now YouTube, Fashion TV, Pogo and many more. But, the message that the maxim conveys – that life is not about choices – stands true even today.
Whoever said, “Life is full of choices,” needs to do a re-think. Let us start from the beginning of the end of our freedom to choose.
I wanted to be born a boy (and wanted to give all the other guys a run for their money) but was born a girl. And unfortunately, haven't yet learnt the art of giving the guys a (literal) run for their money **guffaws**.
Then the naming happened. You don't understand how bad I feel deep down inside… because you may have some popular name like Pooja, Reema or Radhika. Try living 30 years of your life with a name like “Charu Chhibber” and the legions of impaired versions of both, the first as well as the last name. Worse, even your nick name is just too good when it comes to winning you misnomers. You don't believe me???  Well how about "Chalu" (clever), "Jharu" (broom), "Chaaoo" (whatever that means), "Chhillar" [meaning peal (of something) in Punjabi], "Chillar" (lose money/ change), “Chik Chik”, “Cheeky”, “Chikni” etc etc...!!!  Guess, this explains why the naming ceremony is conducted when the infant is still asleep in the cradle. Had I been awake and been able to walk, I would have walked out that very day. Talk of choices…
I never had a choice of school I would go to. It was the city's most sought-after girls' convent from the very beginning. If only my father had allowed me, I would have been happy to graduate from the "LOVE Dale" across the road **rolling eyes**.
When the hormones started flowing, there were no guys around to catch the eye balls in the boring all-girls' school. To make matters worse, never did they give me a good-looking young male class teacher. I think it was a 55-year-old man drenched in some physics and some chemistry in the name of male teacher. But chemistry there was none between him and his all-girl students. His receding hairline, baby-bump-belly and booming sarcasm-filled laughter only reminded each one of us how unwanted he was, despite being the only male among 56 girls. (Sensible girls are not attracted to fat old men, mind you!)
Outside school, either of my over-possessive and over-protective parents would tag along everywhere. If not them, then my elder sibling would follow me more faithfully than the Vodafone pug follows the cute kid.
College was worse. My choices were SD College or GC-46. All two selected from among the rubble because they were co-ed (yeah Chandigarh sucked...with just two co-ed colleges back then. Things haven't improved much). And look where I eventually landed…GCG-11, yet another all-girls' institution. My weird love for journalism had everything to do with it because none of the two co-ed colleges in the city offered journalism at the undergraduate level. What they thought about journalism and co-education, I do not know and don't want to know either!  
The very concept of work is against choice. None of us like to work. Of course, here I am ruling out all those men and women who are regulars to office because they sit next to a pretty dame or hunky dude (respectively) who has only recently joined and is yet to censure them. At least that is what this guy called SS, who sits next to me in office, feels.
Unless of course you stay in the US of A, marriage comes after work but before children. But this is changing fast in our country. In India, children in dustbins come before marriage.
The older you become, the less choices you have. Take me for example: All my relatives, friends, colleagues say, the older I get, the fewer choices I will be left with. Time alone will tell is what I say to them before guffawing like crazy.
That you are left with no choice but to read this stupid post? That's bad. You might as well carry a crown of thorns on your head. But then, is that a choice?

True Love...

Lost in deep thoughts, her dark eyes are fixed on the supple waves kissing the delicate green banks of the serene lake as the cool breeze combs through her soft hair. For once, her kohl-lined eyes are quiet yet speak a thousand words. Clad in a crisp white cotton kurti with a rose pink churidaar, she seems to be a picture of perfect poise and extraordinary contentment, rarely found among her contemporaries. But why not! Tomorrow is the Happiest Day of her life. Her little girl is getting married to her Prince Charming. And it's a crazy feeling. She just doesn't know how to react. She is extremely happy and ecstatic that her baby is starting a new life with a man who loves her truly, madly and deeply yet she is dewy eyed, nostalgic and a tad too emotional.
Sitting by the lake side on the pleasant autumn evening, she seems to be reliving her 'single' motherhood all over again, cherishing the memories she had shared with her 'daughter' all by herself. At times, her face lights up with an impromptu smile and suddenly, her deep eyes glisten under the burden of a tiny droplet called forth by the riot of emotions running through her being. It is a strange evening - a rendezvous of happy beginnings and painful endings.
Aradhana was not M's own child. Nor was she adopted. Yet the two formed the most enviable mother-daughter duo ever. They shared a strange bond, deeper than blood ties, thicker than those of the heart. And the age difference of mere 11 years between them often made them the subject of curiosity among circles. Perhaps they had some connection from the previous birth, both believed and joked. 
It was about six-and-a-half-years ago that as a 'fire-brand' cub reporter, M had met Aradhana for the first time by sheer chance.
She had been sitting in office one lazy afternoon when her crime reporter colleague had narrated a gruesome crime incident. He was visibly upset and though wanted desperately to talk to the victim, did not know how to go about it. M had offered to accompany him to the victim's house and suggested that she would try talking to her.
Within no time, the duo, with a photographer colleague in tow, was standing outside a tiny little dilapidated structure of a room. One knock on the crumbling door and a boy of about 18 appeared in a worn-out blue shorts and greying shirt. Sans any words, the visitors were ushered into a dark room, lit by a kerosene lamp. In the darkest corner of the 6x6 room, sat a petite child with her head pressed between her sickly limbs and her long black hair flowing down her left side. The male colleagues had signalled M to sit on the scruffy cot on the other side of the room. Dazed, she fell on the cot while the men walked out. The boy now kneeled before M and broke down. All he wanted was justice for his kid sister. He then got up and walked towards the door, leaving M alone with the sobbing child.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, M cleared her throat and called out to the girl. Sensing great discomfort, she then climbed down the cot and sat next to the girl. As her skin rubbed against that of the child, a chill ran down M's spine not just because the girl was burning with fever but because, she felt a strong tug at her heart, as if she was shaken out of the dream world into something deeper than reality, something only she could feel but would never know how to express. The girl had, upon the slightest physical contact with M, fallen into her warm arms, giving herself up in the child-woman's embrace, with her face buried deep in the comforting bosom. She was sobbing incessantly. M's heart was throbbing with an unknown emotion. She did not know what was happening to her. She had never felt like that before. Stunned, she sat there with the child in her arms for what seemed like an eternity. The cold floor beneath mocked at the warmth that the young woman shared with the child. Neither knew what bond was this but both felt comfortable.
A knock on the door was enough to transport M back to reality. "We need some more time," she called out in a faint tone to whosoever was standing outside.
Stroking her hair lovingly, M urged the girl to talk to her. After persistent efforts, the girl finally lifted her face. It was a beautiful sight - deep-set almond eyes, the hue of ebony, were staring at M from behind the thick tuft of hair flowing across the dusky face. There was sorrow, pain, horror and expectation in the clear eyes and tears expressed it all. For M, it was instant love, a strange occurrence that defied all explanations with-in and with-out.
Wiping her tears, M comforted the girl and assured her full support. But, she wanted to know what had happened which made her cry so much. The sobbing girl, as if waiting to pour out her pent-up pain, spilled her heart out to M. 
As she heard the blood-curdling tale of the 13-year-old, M froze. "My father is a MONSTER," were the girl's first words to M.
She was being raped by her own biological father for the past six years and her own mother was helping the fiend to execute the horrifying animal act because she was tired of facing his drunken sexual assault each night. She served her own daughter to her husband to escape the pain of forceful sex. This, they had been doing in front of their 18-year-old son repeatedly for the past six years. And now, the girl was pregnant with the child of her own father.
Today, the beast and his wife were out for a friend's wedding, which gave the son a chance to go out and make efforts to save his innocent sister. It was at the nearby tea stall that he had met M's crime reporter colleague which in turn brought the trio here.
Tears flowed freely as M held the girl close to her heart. No words were exchanged beyond this but souls trembled. Hours passed by but tears did not stop. The men intervened and reminded M it was already 7 pm. Hugging the child tight and promising to get her justice, M got up. Her eyes were burning with murderous rage. As if the last few hours had transformed her from a carefree, chirpy young thing into a fierce lioness on the prowl. 
Within minutes, police was called in. Monster and his wife were arrested and put behind bars. The girl was sent to Shanti Niketan and the case was sent to fast-track court. M and her colleagues tried their best to get capital punishment for the rapist and his wife. They highlighted the child's plight in their newspaper, India's largest national English daily, evoking strong reactions and massive support from across the nation. However, the judiciary, like always, played spoilsport and under-punished the monster and his wife by sentencing them to rigorous life term while the entire media fraternity was seething with anger, demanding death for the monstrous duo.
During the course of the trial, M had grown really close to the girl. She would visit the child each morning and evening at Shanti Niketan and be with her even during the court proceedings, protecting her like a mother. She would take food and other stuff for her and have her meals with the girl. She faced, along with the girl, the agony of the fact that both, child birth as well as MTP could be fatal for the pregnant child. Finally, she saw the girl through her painful MTP (medical termination of pregnancy) and comforted her through the most difficult time of her life. The girl, who would go into a self-woven cocoon in the presence of others, blossomed into a loving child when around M.
Days, weeks, months passed. From "Didi" (sister) when M became "Maa" (mother), none of the two realised. But it was an immensely beautiful bond that the two women shared.
On a special appeal by M's resident editor, the court let the girl live with her brother and grandparents who had come from Bihar after the gory incident came to light. 
A year later, the family expressed a desire to go back to Bihar. With a heavy heart, M decided to let go. She made all arrangements for their trip back home. Called up her colleagues in Bihar to ensure the girl and her brother were well taken care off once back home and admitted to a decent government school. She withdrew all her savings and pooled them with the amount collected by her colleagues for the girl and handed over an FD to the child's grandfather. This money, she had said, would help at the time of the girl's marriage.
She then took a promise from the affectionate grandparents that they would not marry off the girl before she turned 18 and educate her till then, with the financial assistance that her colleagues and she would be sending each month.
With tears of happiness mixed with the pain of separation, M and her girl bid adieus to each other. Phone calls continued all these years, pleasantly interrupted by a visit each by M and her girl to each other's places, as the latter went on to complete her high school. And just about at that time, the girl had called up her "Maa" to tell her how she had come across a nice, handsome, gentle school teacher, who knew everything about her past, yet, was ready to accept her as his wife. Not only that, he had even waited for two long years for her to complete her Class X and attain the legal marriageable age before he finally took the proposal to her grandparents. The boy had even assured the grandparents that he would support the girl's higher studies and help her complete her education, at least till graduation. Thereafter, he would leave the choice of a career or a full time house-job to his wife. The boy belonged to a very educated family and had fallen in love with the girl's simplicity, honesty and sensitivity.
M was happy but apprehensive. The girl was too young, she had reasoned, to which the grandmother had remarked that the boy lives just across the road and it was not everyday that one finds such a sincere man. "She is 19. She will start a family only after they are both ready for it. There is no need to worry. We have verified his antecedents and are more than satisfied," remarked the gleeful grandma. But M insisted on meeting the boy and his family. They agreed and within days, a meeting was held. M could just not say no to the loving family. "When I look into his eyes, I can see immense love for you. He will always keep you happy. God Bless you my baby," she had said and given her approval.
And now, four weeks later, M is all set to see her l'il Aradhana walk down the aisle and be someone else's forever. She is happy, very happy and proud too, of her lovely daughter, who has grown into a fine young woman. Tomorrow, she will play the role of a mother when Aradhana takes the wedding vows because that is how Aradhana had wanted it to be, ever since she first addressed M as "Maa". 
M feels proud and blessed.

The fragile 'reporterrr' heart!

Journalism is fun. You are always on top of news, people respect you and think you wield a lot of power but little do they know the intrigues involved.

That journalists are grossly underpaid is undoubtedly the most cribbed-about subject. But it’s not the money that troubles eccentric journos like me (we are made of different stuff, you see!)

It takes some real time sublime stuff to move us to tears (well, I said we are different - what is earthly or crass to you is, most probably, sublime to us and vice versa!).

Moved to tears… did you just resonate!?! Yes! We are humans too… bit weird, agreed, but humans for sure!

Well, among all the things that have ever pierced my heart ruthlessly, I am going to chronicle just a few here!

Every newspaper journalist or 'reporterrrrr' (as we are popularly known), worth his/ her salt (or of someone else’s for that matter) loves to see his/ her name in print. And, the affinity just grows deeper with time even though many would claim otherwise. After all, it is this love, passion and the adrenaline rush that one gets on seeing one’s name in print that keeps the passionate, honest, upright journalists like me going.

And it is this very insane passion that brings us misery and pain and hurt and tears.

For starters, it is very essential to know that we journos just can’t bear to see our names misspelt. One small spelling mistake (made by the atrocious desk people who simply love to play around with our names and everything else we write) and our entire day is invested in cribbing. I say “invested” cz in journalism, this is the only thing that works besides sleaze, but that I’ll delve upon in more free time.

Another thing that bugs us is if our “position” is mentioned erroneously in the paper – for instance, if a staffer’s name (the by-line or the credit line above each news story) is carried with “Our Correspondent” instead of with the usual ...........News Service, we take it as the biggest humiliation in the world. After all, we have earned our “staffer status” with great effort and the lowly “correspondent” has a long way to go to match up to us.

And if by chance, the desk person deems it fit to rip us off our right to claim credit on the news story, all hell breaks loose – incessant complaints to the bosses, never ending crib session, irritability, “no work” mood, zero input-zero output, no control over temper, grumpy demeanour, unbearable agony, hatred... the day becomes a roller coaster of the vicious emotions. 

Another murderous assault is the rape of our news stories, which again, if you dare to believe any journalist, happens everyday with him/ her because: "the desk people don't like my face" or because "I don't butter then up with Salaams and Sat Sri Akals" or "the desk hates me", "they are jealous", "they wanted to accommodate that bitch's/ dog's story by chopping mine off" etc etc...

And like a good journalist, I’ve suffered the agonies of by-lines and rape of the story... day in and day out!! The bosses suffered with me – probably even more... I suffered my own; they suffered the complaints of 256 like me everyday ;)

As a matter of fact, journos like me (made of different stuff ;P) are too touchy about the newspaper and anything and everything even remotely related to it.

Though yesterday’s newspaper inevitably and invariably goes to trash, we can’t just see that happening. We love to preserve heaps of raddi in our store rooms, bed rooms, drawing rooms, kitchens, even washroom, if there is no space elsewhere! And we love the paper mountains like they were our own baby. But when the junk dealer comes calling and mum is too happy to oblige, we cry like little babies – not wanting our prized possession to be driven out of our sight. At last, the mother (wife, in case of married men) prevails and another day of sadness follows! The “ghar soona-soona” feeling overpowers us, forcing us to rush to office – the prosperous mountain nation of newspapers.

And needless to say, we absolutely hate it when our mums misuse our "bread and butter" and last day’s hard work by chopping veggies on them. 

Even more than that hurts to see one’s "breaking news" story caressing the unhygienic roadside chana-kulcha or that stale patty from that sad, round-the-corner shop.

The mention of chana-kulcha reminds me of an incident that scarred two journo hearts for life. A colleague and I, starving since morning, rushed downstairs to catch a quick bite but due to office’s godforsaken location, could not find anything but the humble roadside chana-kulcha to fill our hungry tummies with.

On the verge of collapse due to the terrible hunger pangs, the hygiene conscious us decided to hog on the unhygienic but yummy-beyond-words street food.

As soon as the over-friendly vendor handed over a bundle of two kulchas stuffed with chana masala to me, my esteemed colleague threw a sudden fit - of laughter. A closer look and I realised I was served my lunch in my own by-line – one of the biggest stories of the day, by the annoying vendor who insisted on addressing us as “akhbaar wali madam”. 

Gulping down the anger along with the kulchas, I somehow managed to regain a part of my calm only till the vendor handed over a similar bundle to my colleague. It was now my turn to roll with laughter.

As if God had wished to teach our fragile egos a lesson through this whimsical vendor, the colleague was served chana-kulcha in that part of the newspaper where her story was.

Gaping and mocking at us from behind the humble meal, were our respective names, in our hands – soiled with salt, pepper and chilly powder and what not!

The day was a great humbling experience – our hard work was literally eating humble pie, that too, on a dusty, city street.

Edible stuff is still bearable, but I swear, when one’s last evening’s sweat and ink is wrapped around things like shoes etc, not to speak of the unmentionable things one does with the newspaper in the loo, the heart bleeds. I, personally, have had numerous arguments, and heated ones believe you me, on this with people of all shapes and sizes. How can someone even think of using the sacrosanct newsprint for such purposes... eeeeeekkkkksss!!

But the worst is yet to come – the nightmare!! And what I’m going to mention now, is a deadly blow to even the hardest and toughest of journo hearts. The ultimate prick - to see one’s bai (maid) wipe her baby's a** with one’s byline... urrrgggghhhhhh!! Happened to me... as a result of which I lost sleep for four full days – MY WORK GOING DOWN THE SHIT...literally!! How could it be!! 

Sleep returned only after I got all the bais in the vicinity to pledge to use waste paper pieces, rough clothes, polythene... anything but newspaper for the purpose!

And, this, my friends, is reality. So, in case you have a journo friend (oh yes you weirdos we journos are friend-material, unfortunately long neglected by your society) beware and handle the sacred newsprint with utmost care... lest you kill a part of his/ her heart!!

Of Dreams, The Dead and Death...

I dream... dream a lot, of The Dead… Dead Relatives, to be precise! Those who I have seen while they were alive and even those who I have not seen, just heard of. And I don't just see Dead. They talk to me, laugh with me, cry with me and worry for me! Yes, that is a fact! 

The most frequent visitors to my dream world are my paternal grandfather and grandmother, both of whom we lost years ago. While it has been nearly 24 years that my grandpa left us, my grandma has been gone for over a decade now.

Others who come calling in my sleep include my maternal grandmother, my dad's grandmother and uncle (who I had never seen in my lifetime), my own cousin, my mom's uncle and aunt and sundry other relatives. 

The most amazing part is that once I wake up, I am able to paint a vivid word picture of the exact sequences of events and even the people I saw in my dream, including the Dead that I had never seen in my life. 

I have, on more than one occasions, seen my dad's uncle in my dreams. He had died long before I was born and we do not even possess any picture of him. Next morning, I could describe clearly, his body type, his hair, skin colour, the kind and colour of clothes and footwear he was wearing. That dad was shocked beyond words, is an understatement. 

This is just one incident. There are dozens of the kind. The most common, rather recurring dream perhaps is wherein my grandmom is smiling, laughing and joking around amid a crowd of relatives and friends gathered to celebrate a happy occasion, which seems to be a wedding. But I'm never able to tell clearly what occasion it is. Some people say my grandma, from up above somewhere, is eager to see me married, hence the dream. But I disagree. Because she was once celebrating my dad's wedding even as my mom looked on, amused. 

In another one, I saw my cousin (who we lost 3 years ago) celebrating my engagement ceremony with his friend. That he had suggested his friend as a prospective groom for me, might have a link here but I'm not sure.

I even had a dream of a family celebration (wedding perhaps) wherein I was told that my grandfather had come back to the earth just to be able to be with me for a day. The fact that I miss him like hell and wish to spend some time with him, definitely has a connection with this one, because he passed away when I was too young and I almost have nil memories of him! Once, on a dreadfully gloomy night, grandpa had come again in my dream. He was sad too, just like me and asked me to smile, sing, laugh and be happy because he could not see me like that. Next morning was a lot better and I smiled for him but could feel his pain which I had given him by being so sad and depressed.

At times, I see my maternal granny as a ghost, trying to scare my sister and me. This might have a connection with my childhood days when granny used to scare us about a ghost coming to eat us (sister and me) both if we did not drink our cuppa hot milk!

And the list of such dreams just goes on. They have become a regular feature in my life. And they leave me disturbed for days, weeks, months together.

But hey! The scariest part is yet to come. The Dead, at times, even predict deaths in my dreams! Scared!?! Well, I have been trying hard to find a word scarier than "scared" for long now because "scared" does not aptly express the horror that I feel when I sit down to analyze my dreams.

My grandfather once came in my dream and told me that he will come on a particular day to take my granny along, since he had been feeling lonely. I mentioned this dream to my parents who did not take it too seriously. But to our astonishment and utter shock, my granny passed away just around the time my grand-dad had mentioned in my dream. That was the first time such a thing ever happened with me and I was completely shaken. 

Well, this is just a part of my plight. My real beef is being able to foresee deaths - of people I know and even of those I do not have the remotest of connections with.

I saw in my dream and pronounced the death of my maternal aunt's mother-in-law and she died exactly on the day I had "predicted". I could foresee the death of my grandfather's closest friend and cousin - my Chhote Dadaji, as I fondly addressed him. I had also felt and expressed in hushed tones, to my dad, my fear of having sensed the death of my paternal aunt's father. He, too, passed away into eternity on the day I had seen. 

However, it was the legendary Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw's death that shocked me the most. He had no relation to me whatsoever but it was at least a month prior to his death that I could see the D-Day and that too, not in any dream, but in awakened reality. I shared the information with a friend who asked me to relax, citing probable incidents that might have provoked the thoughts of the greatest Indian soldier of all times. But when the news of FM Manekshaw's death came, my friend and I were shaken beyond words. From dreams, the predictions had spilled over to waking hours!! 

I was stunned, and still am!! Even scared of sharing my thoughts with people around me.

P.S: This post has been penned after fellow blogger and dear friend Manju insisted that I do so. Manju feels that my blog buddies and other bloggers might be able to comprehend the situation and suggest ways to deal with the trauma that these dreams bring along. She also feels I should see a psychotherapist...I really dunno!! 

 

Life's a Bitch

Life's a Bitch and Destiny's a Master Player! And when these two join hands, they neither catapult you to Cloud 9 nor pull you down into the dumps. They simply hang you somewhere in between. And that is exactly where I am today -   in the middle of nowhere. 

Confused if I should be happy at the turn of event or sad at their sudden time-line, I'm generally feeling blue since morning. 

And on any normal day, I turn to my bestest buddy ASD for advice 'cz I know come what may, she will give me the sanest piece of advice possible.

But since it’s a matter involving the Bitch and her accomplice Master Player working overtime to screw things nice and proper for me, Anjali turned out to be the one to put me into this dilemma.

So, with confusion running amok among the grey cells, major events popping up like wild mushrooms, life's most important decisions staring me in the face and my bestest buddy at the helm of these affairs, where do I go?

Well one grey cell screamed may be I should go to my Blog Buddies!! So here I am, giving words to my gravest doubts!

So now, coming back to my dilemma. ASD who is my absolute sweetheart, a darling and my most trusted confidante, has landed me in a terrible fix with an offer that I can neither reject nor get myself to accept. 

I mean, I want to accept but dunno if I should or not, considering my earlier experiences and consequent decisions.

Ohk...so without fooling around, I should directly come to the point and state that ASD today proposed to me on behalf of her brother, who I hardly know and haven’t even met (he's been away from home for years now like any other normal Indian Army man).

But yes, through ASD and her family and friends, I know he is a gentleman, a caring, understanding, family man who happens to be part of the glorious Green Brigade which has always been the subject of my affections and attention. But if he will turn out to be my Mr Right, I do not know. I’m unable to decide as to what should I do. Should I consider meeting him or not?

The thought of being a part of my best friend’s family is thrilling no doubt. But the responsibility gets more than just doubled when you are so close to someone and she trusts you blindly to the extent that she feels no one but YOU can be the Ms. Right for her only younger brother who she loves even more than her own child or when she says that only YOU can be a daughter to her mom while she, the daughter by birth, will be miles away.

The thought is sweet at the same time a bit scary. Will I be able to fulfil her expectations and will I be a good, dutiful daughter(-in-law) to her mom; an ideal sister(-in-law) to my best friend and the perfect wife to her brother?? I dunno...!! 

All I know is that ASD, in connivance with the Bitch and the Master Player, has stumped me yet again and the trio is trying its best to overthrow my mighty plans of staying single....forever!! I'm scared...to say the least!!!

Time’s a living prize

“Simple joys have a simple voice that says time’s a living prize…”

Life dwells in simple, sweet pleasures whilst the bigger things simply facilitate it. Well, not many might agree but I'm one of the most loyal lovers of simpler joys that life has to offer. 

Most of the times, it's the small l'il things that make our lives so easy and worth living.

Remember how many times, we have broken into an impromptu smile when a stranger in the coffee shop smiled at us, or when our secret crush as much as glanced at us. A phone call from a long-lost pal has always brought boundless happiness as has fresh, home-made food (esp after months of dreary, inedible stuff rolled out by the hostel mess).

All of us have, without fail, felt a lot better after a hug from a loved one even during those dreadful bouts of depression. Almond kheer made so lovingly by mum and served by dad in the middle of the night is always more than just a blessing. Finding a Rs 100 note from an old, forgotten pair of jeans is usually, the happiest moment of the day. 

Looking at the old black and white family pics is always a nostalgic experience and holding hands with your beloved always transports one to a different world altogether. Holding a sleeping baby (even if not yours) in your arms is always such an exhilarating, unique experience.

And not to forget the joy we all feel when we happen to lay our hands on that one book that we had been dying to read.  

Driving through the hills with your fav music on, watching the sun rise on a mid-summer morning, feel of freshly-laundered sheets, no traffic jams, no deadlines, watching a classic, curled up in a cozy bed on a frosty winter evening - the simple joys are too many to be chronicled in even a 7-volume-series.

But what beats all these simple joys of life hands down is the Utopian freedom of not having to wake up to the sound of the alarm clock. Ahhhh...sounds so very interestingly refreshing and liberating - having the ultimate freedom of  no alarm, no agenda, no work. All this is it... isn't it!?!

So here's to the simple pleasures of life. May they always sneak up behind us and yell 'Surprise!'

Whore-monal wave

I hate it. Yes I do. Just like all the other girls. And here I am - PMS-ing, and needless to say, hating it to the core. I have two majorly ugly pimples on my left cheek. My emotions are in a mess and I'm getting upset and so girl and sensitive over small little things. I hate it when I get 'Miss Lil Sensitive' and sulk over small stuffs. It makes me feel like I'm a cry baby. Grrrr! And just the thought that this will go on for another week, gives me the eeeeeekkss... or whateva!

So today, I guess I'm just not being myself. I'm tired, exhausted, irritated and generally behaving like an old hag - shouting and screaming at anybody and everybody in sight! I'm getting teary eyed for no apparent reason at all and not feeling hungry, despite a yummy delicacy hidden in there in my lunch box!

I'm missing my lost-love terribly but just can't get myself to call him up, lest I end up fighting or hurting him. 

The only good thing to have happened today was a call from a long-lost girl-friend with whom I chatted and bitched and gossiped to my heart's content about people in general and men in particular. 

This reminds me... I gotto pen down what I invariably end up doing on such days!

Top 10 things I say or do when I’m PMSing

10. Ask you to talk about your problems then get mad at you.

9. Whine when I might as well wine!

8. Ask you if I look bloated, old, ugly, cute, young, sexy, slim or fat? Any answer is wrong.

7. Cry A LOT!

 6. Call him up and ask him why we loved each other so much yet we've never got married and why his parents were scared of me?

5. Ask him about his ex/ prospects and find reason to feel insecure!

4. Fight with him over the time when I said “I Love You” to him and found him hesitant. "Was he seeing someone else?" turns out to be the biggest fight! 

3. Drive 25 km for an ice-cream, only to be put off by its mere sight.

2. Get all mushy after the fight and tell him how much I still love him and miss him.

1. Go on a crazy shopping spree and come back with bags-full of stuff I don't require in this birth.

Ahhh, the whore-monal wave...problem if you sweep across our lives, and even bigger problem if you decide to play truant forever!! Love to hate you, you Bitch!!

Liberated

Some months ago, I used to drive my pregnant colleague-friend to all our meetings in town and also to office, and whenever I had her in my car, I got all stressed out. I was doubly aware of the surroundings, maintained speed limits, double checked before cutting lane with the indicator lights on and no swearing. How can you swear in front of a mom-to-be, right??

Due to her, I got into this permanent habit of being a careful, patient driver, though I’ve never really been a speed demon. And to be frank, I missed all those days of “normal” driving when one would enjoy the scenes on the road, making fun of outlandish characters on the road, peeping at the show windows of shops while passing through the city markets, suddenly coming across a road bump and bringing the car to a screeching halt or swearing at the truck driver who almost squashed my l’il car! Not surprisingly, the lady delivered but the so-called good habit stuck to me, for what seemed like forever.

So for months everyday, I drove to and from office as the proverbial good driver, honking mildly when required, indicating turns, slowing down much before a bump or pothole, never really enjoying the drive like I used to as a free-spirited driver prior to my friend’s family plan.

Anyway, moving on to last weekend. I had another one of my friends riding in my car after a long time – his first time with me, to be precise. We were going out for a long weekend drive. It was the most enjoyable 2-hour drive on my entire 12 years of driving.

Driving uphill at a comfortably high speed, with cool breeze blowing into the face, I drove along, enjoying one of the most pleasurable experiences of my life.

A few kilometres’ drive and we found ourselves amid the beautifully breathtaking hills, wrapped deliciously in lush green environs. Thick dark clouds made the hills look even more welcoming.

The destination was still some kilometres away and we were determined to make the most of every minute of my journey.

As we drove along, we relished the bounty of nature, bestowed so sumptuously upon the surrounding hills, pine trees, gorges and brooks. The playful monkeys seem to be singing in the praise of the Mother Nature.

I was lost in the beauty of the enchanting environs just when I realised I had lost all the consciousness about driving that had come with my pregnant friend. I was once again enjoying the high-speed yet careful drive thoroughly, whistling and singing all along. I felt as though my shackles have been taken off after ages. I felt liberated. Once again, I felt one with my own self!

I’m irritated

I’m irritated. Irritated because people around me are experiencing life-changing moments, both professionally and personally. I seem to be the only one stuck in a rut. Actually, not so much of ‘stuck’ but more like I’m not able to change gears... not even into the second one!

Ohk...I’m extremely happy for these people yet somehow I feel jaded. What makes it worse is the fear of losing them to distance, time and space...

Losing my bestest buddy, my darling friend to a town 2 hours away!

Losing my man-friend to his high-stress job!

Losing my confidante to her wedding bells!

Fasting For Mom!

Today is Karwa Chauth - a day very special for married women, especially North Indians. On this day, every married/ betrothed woman observes fast from sunrise to moonrise and prays for the long life of her husband/ fiancé. She neither has a morsel of food nor a drop of water. She also dresses in her best, colours her palms with heena, wears bangles, dons the proverbial "16 shringar", meets friends and relatives and basks in the glory of her immense love for her life-partner  and enjoys the attention and affection of her man. In many communities and sometimes, even out of personal choice, many unmarried women/ girls, too, fast. While some of them fast for their boyfriend's well-being, others do it to pray for a happy married life ahead and her dream man as her husband.   

This is indeed a very unique way to celebrate love. And a very beautiful one too though over the years, the trend has changed - many women do not observe fast and in numerous cases, both, men and women fast to express mutual love, care and admiration for each other.

Well, this post isn't about Karwa Chauth. It is about ME! And how, despite not being committed, nor wanting to get into the wedlock, I still am fasting. Not because I want a great married life ahead nor because I am praying to get my dream man. But because I love my mom. Strange!?! Isn't it? You will say yes, extremely! But I say nayyyyyyyyyyy! 

I am fasting because my mom wants me to. She wants me to observe the fast and like the zillions of unmarried-but-desperate-to-get-married girls, to pray for a speedy marriage and a good husband. She even wanted me to get my palms heena-ed which I did, for her happiness.

Actually, I could just not say NO to my darling mom - who loves me unconditionally and despite my million flaws, who cares for me and wants to see me settle down soon with a "loving, caring man, who would make me the happiest girl in the world with his love and care". I could just not break her heart by refusing to observe the fast and crashing all her hopes and aspirations, which anyway I am going to do by refusing to get married. And anyway, if me observing a fast can give her boundless happiness, then why not? I am not going to die if I do not eat and drink  Yet, I feel strange... very strange. With no reason and no subject, I am observing a ritual that is so holy, so pious and so special for those in love. I feel stupid, weird, almost lost. Why am I doing this? For my mom - Love You Mumma!!