Cogito ergo doleo...

I’m sad. No, scratch that… I’m nostalgic.

I stand today in very familiar territory. Another chapter in a very good story is about to end.
And this isn’t your average story… It doesn’t have any of the usual melodrama, or the usual action sequences and sadly enough, the usual bedroom sequences… In fact, the only distinctive thing about it is that it’s “our” story.

Like any obscure writer… I look around a lot. (It’s what we do, we obscure writers)
And I see a lot I was always intent on missing before…

There are no new wrinkles on my Grandparents’ cheeks. And yet I know they’re getting older.
These people have given me my parents. And the most horrible baths a kid can ever hope not to have. They’ve given me 10 bucks a day for everyday I’ve spent at their place, so that I could bake under the sun while waiting to play video games.
Not to mention the most effective dressing down ever for throwing about 24 eggs on the nearest wall after a singularly inspiring Tom and Jerry tape.
I know I’m not a bad kid. But I guess right now I’m left wishing that life were somehow less complicated. And that I could again play cricket with everyone in the backyard. You know… God bless his heart, my Grandfather always used to let me have 7 balls in every over I played. : )
There are just so many people who never get to know what they’re loved the way they are. What is worse is that there are just so many people who can’t tell they love the way they do.

I simply had to become a doctor. So I’ve been in the same place for five and a half years. And suffice to say, I’ve hated every brick in the place. Every vocal professor, every non functional geyser… everything.
And today… five and a half years later… I find that it is just these things that have taken a new hue. One I wasn’t particularly convinced existed.

Imagine yourself glad to see people you couldn’t stand to see before just because you saw them every day. Or talk to pre-ordained absolute polar opposites just so that you don’t miss out on it. Eating food Hell itself declared unsafe just so that you can bitch about it… All of it… someday… years later… over a fireplace that has gone out, and people who’ve only just come in.

Life is a series of random occurrences. But then… so are me and you.
And there is no friggin’ reset button.

P.s. My Grandfather only took 5 balls in every over he played. : )
P.p.s. That's latin. I think, therefore I'm depressed.

Contempt breeds familiarity...

Being around the same people for a very long time is a friggin’ predictable routine. There’s a small chance that you really are as nice as you think you are. And a big chance that they are the certified spawns-of-satan that they pretend not to be.
Put two and pi together, and you have a very peculiar number that you can’t do anything with.

But take these factors into account, and there’s an indecent probability that you’ll end up knowing someone who falls into the following categories: *

1. People who’ve mortally offended you, your family, your pets and your polka dotted chaddis.

2. People who’ve you’ve added on facebook because you wanted to be popular with other people who think you’re popular with the other other people I just mentioned.

3. People who you owe money to.

4. Ex Girlfriends/Boyfriends/“turned-you-down-because-you’re-a-fugly-person.”

5. The “Chape Crowd”. Will stick to you like an overenthusiastic post-it stamp cross bred with a hungry leech.

But since you are around them for so long, “the fly-be-free-!” ceases to be an option. Through intensive studies of Gorilla behavior when faced with David Dhawan movies, I’ve come to the conclusion that most people react the following ways when under duress:

1. The en-passant
Staring casually into the middle distance when passing each other. It helps if you can get an old western soundtrack to play in the background. Me, I also like to imagine horses and chariots. But then you probably don’t have access to my medications.

2. The Shift-delete
Permanently erasing said person from your fragmented psyche. Includes deleting phone numbers, talking only to other people when present in groups of three and above; and creating imaginary friends when faced with groups of two and below.

3. The body-language
Non verbal communication excluding judicious use of the middle finger. Staring up, left, down and right during conversations. And doing all at once if the dislike is especially strong. Look for the weird circular motion of the head if in doubt.

4. Excuses
Killing off relatives and contracting uncurable diseases at random to get away. Justifying such slaughter in the name of sacrifice; and eventual reincarnation.

5. Show off
Strongest indicator of the “I-don’t-need-you-anymore”, you “someone-I-can’t –do-without”. Sounds like a bad Celine Dion song when explanations are tried in blog posts.
Includes new jeans in old posterior, new gadgets for the old idiot and new company for old personality disorder.

*I normally recommend “vice versa” with all such lists. But I know you’re never listening.

The myths of our time...

The bleeding lot of us will believe anything. And it doesn’t even have to occupy the prime time “because the Tulsi-Baa nexus said so” slot. No… we’re way more gullible. How do I know this? Well, it’s stinking retrospective.

Reality checks:

1. The pretty girl didn’t look at you. She has to see where she’s going. Next thing you know she’ll bump into someone else and you’ll get a premarital divorce out of sheer jealousy.

2. You’re not a Jedi. Do not try to make my car stop by palming your hand at me.

3. Brushing off the 2 stray hairs that made it onto your face will not put Brad Pitt out of business. Chances are, you’re uglier now because more of your face is exposed.

4. Yes. That dress does make you look fat.

5. God will probably not change the Divine Plan because you didn’t study for your test tomorrow. Start praying for a kitten instead.

6. There's no such thing as wind energy, The Indian Government and intellectual property.

7. Direction in blog posts is for wusses and little girls.

P.s. Pardon the cynicism. It’s late at night and Barack Obama has just won the Nobel Peace Prize. That’s like me winning the Nobel for Physics because I once solved a numerical sober.

When pigs fly...

I’ve just tested positive for swine flu.

Yes, at 12 midnight. I cannot begin to grasp the consequences.
I’m led to imagine pathetically hammed action movie sequences where I come crashing though electric wires. There are people shouting “Swine-zilla” in the background; and the lip-syncing is straight out of a dubbed north korean flick. I pick up the first maiden I can get my hands on to with the dire unspoken threat of sneezing in her face.

Oh, the horror…

Other parts of my fragmented psyche are rejoicing at the thought of anything close to 5 days of holidays. Something like this usually fits in perfectly with my dream of an egalitarian society. I get to avoid everyone equally.
Notably, four out of five interns are vehemently against the idea of having to work when they can just as easily not work. The fifth intern has probably taken a casual leave on the date of this poll.

Part of me is finding itself to the “what did I do to deserve this?”
Understandable. Considering that all I did to get this thingie was to sit with somebody who was a confirmed flu positive and grade women out of ten during a fashion show. My pain now compounded manifold by the memory of the fact that no one in particular crossed 7.5 (Though if you were dressed in orange last Thursday and are managing to read this by some strange twist of destiny, take a friggin’ hint).

Sigh. More oseltamivir for the wicked then…
No rest still.

Short story...

So my college has a festival. And as cynical as I usually am about all such things (read:humbug), I decide to show up after all. Seems this time was a better deal than our usual slumdog millionaire show every year.

They had this debate about how social networking websites are invading our privacy. And since I have this endearing knack for getting offended about the strangest of things, I decide to participate.
I also win, considering how the rest of the competition was too confused to see someone wielding a stethoscope get onto the podium.

And since all good turns deserve at least another half more...
For the first time in remembered "me" history and generally the history of the world, this "Apsara brand" woman (I'd like to think so) walks up to me and says...
"You speak very well... and I'd like to interact you" (sic).
"Also I'm not that kind of girl".

I remember being far too stymied to correct her grammar. I remember "Rockstar" playing in the background. I also remember her not calling once.
Sigh. When women suppress good taste.

P.s. They also thought my love letter sounded the least desperate of the lot. Remind me to post that here sometime.

Purely hypothetical...

So I ran into ‘her’.
And like all women who’ve ever worn that particular pronoun in the history of written literature… I almost wished I hadn’t.
And like every time I’ve “almost” wished I hadn’t… Well, there’s a story here too.

There she is… sitting across the table not five feet away. Less than three strides for the eager lover. Two if you’re as tall as me.
There are people talking. Every now and then she smiles; and it feels another ripple has passed over the surface of eternity. And as much as I think they messed up the darn punch line, it seems I can’t help but smile too. I wish they get the next one right… I do so hate it when she stops with that smile.

As much as my heart craves what is only the caress of her gaze, I now look away. I’m much too afraid she’ll catch me staring. Leaving me too embarrassed ever to be able to tell her that now that I had found her… I knew everything was going to be alright.
The sun would rise again tomorrow. The dang sunflowers would point in just the right direction. And that maybe, just maybe, one day as the sunlight would be streaming in through half open windows, I’d brush aside the stray hair that crept onto her face and wake her up with a kiss on her cheek that half spelt “I love you” and half “I love how you yawn”.

She glances my way once, as if to thank me for my words. I keep looking away. Seems I have not the mind to accept such thanks. I only gave her what was hers in the first place. And then she smiles again. It begins in her eyes, like all smiles worth telling someone about.
Seems they were working on their punch lines, after all.

I think about getting up and talking to her. It can’t be that difficult. In spite of what they might say, it is a good sign if your legs turn to jelly and your mind turns to pudding. If she understands me the right way (and there is no other way), she’ll know she herself is my poetry made manifest. The “ba-ba-black-sheep” that I’ll end up doing such a spirited rendition of is probably just an occupational hazard.

I think again. I would need something to start a conversation with. Women have not been known to take kindly to opening lines about the annual sugar production of Cuba.

Perhaps something to do with how she embodies that which is beauty… a serene landscape one could spend a lifetime trying to describe and yet words would betray.
No… too long.
Perhaps a simple “Hi” would do. Maybe that’s all that is needed to open doors anyway.
No… too Gandhian.
Maybe I simply recite the alphabet in my baritone. Pheromones have been known to take care of the rest.
No… too clichéd.

So I simply walk up to her and say…

…and we haven’t stopped talking since.
(Most of it about things like the coffee output of Brazil. Told you Cuba doesn't work).

Pain...

Pain is your body's way of responding to noxious stimuli.
To rephrase, it is your body's way of telling you that whatever you're experiencing is going to screw you over, leave you naked in the middle of the street and not give you enough money for a seat on the storage rack of a bus.

Applying that half-logic to the rest of your life, you'll find just how easy it is to tell how bad something is for you by the duration and severity of the pain you're going through.

Which is why, after nearly a month and a half of recurrent headaches, gastritis and anxiety disorders bordering on the Harman Baweja, I've come to the conclusion that Gynae Posting sucks.
Pun unintended.

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