Category Archives: Wanderings

Best of 2009


Just read a best of 2009 here, on a blog that actually got me hooked into the blog world. And I was tempted to try it myself.

2009 was in a sense a landmark year for me.

It was a year that made me realise truly that weight is just a number that can fluctuate one way or another and I inherently do not change as  a person. And if I don’t change, I owe it to myself to remain true to myself, no matter how I look.

I also realised that weight may be a just another number but more people noticed and commented and asked me how I was, now that I was thinner than they were used to seeing me. But that’s them. I am still who I was.

I made bread for the first time. And the happiness was unparalleled. So far. Nothing has me this ecstatic to see the sticky dough rise into a gleaming white dough and eventually bake into a dense loaf. Not even my first cake.

I discovered, just like challenges in cooking which I took up even though they scared me, that my ‘let’s try it’ attitude should be transposed on to other areas of my life. And just like cooking experiments, the results there also are mixed. But that’s the fun. I did, after all, make a second and third attempt at bread.

Twitter was another new addition in my life and I seem to have taken to it much more than any other social networking site. Its remarkably private and suitably succinct and the pressure to be popular isn’t that much. On most days. And it gives a new meaning to hyper.

I took once chance opportunity during the year and it exposed me to something I hadn’t considered at all. All of a sudden avenues seem to have opened up and am willing to give sleep and all other faves of mine, to actually work at something. And, for the firs time, whether it will work or not, is not bothering me. I know I need to and can do it. That’s all that matters.

I read more, spoke less, thought more, tried to verbalise without letting emotion get in the way, learnt to replicate the rush of a heady experience on bad days and am learning, to a point, to be positive and not kill my brain thinking.

Happy new year, again.

It’s time.


Sometimes I wonder if circumstances reflect your mind.

Or you just see reason where there is none.

Spam bots send you mails that relate to the confusion in your mind.

People say things that otherwise would not make any sense to you.

And normal routines that rescue you every single time cannot help.

It’s time.

Conversation is such a turn on


I miss my college days when a pair of us stayed awake nights oh-so-often,  and chatted. We always has so much to say. So much to tell each other. Our discussions almost never revolved around girly things and we came to many important conclusions. I loved the night.

On good days, startling clarity is achieved in those wee hours of the morning when a deliciousness steals over you, fueled by coffee, sugar and the knowledge that the next day will go without any rest. And you hoard all you heard and said while revelling in the hoarseness of the throat from having talked so much.

Classmates wondered what I always had to say that filled a night, so frequently and how I went without any sleep. There were days when I wondered too. Did we truly have so much to say and discuss? I thought it was something that I would outgrow with college.

As years passed, work dominated life more and more and there were fewer friends left, with whom I wanted to stay awake  with or even wanted to spend a night talking, in an non-alcoholic stupor.

It was a sad demise, I thought and wondered if that delicious tiredness would ever be felt again. There is nothing that compares to that next morning, when you remember all you discussed and argued over and bared your soul over.

The night is this fantastic blanket, under which you can say anything and nobody thinks differently of you in the morning, but something has still changed implicitly. To give an analogy, it’s like sex: when done under the garb of the night, things seem unchanged in the morning but yet something has altered on a fundamental level. Conversation is like that.

I am happy to announce that side of me is back. I am having the most amazing all-night conversations regularly. What’s even better is every time there are new people which is so much better than talking to people you know.

They say nostalgia is dangerous


The reason this quote was coined was perhaps because you only remember the good, the rosy and the loved. The pain, anguish, heartache and mistrust — and every other thing negative — is all forgotten. That’s perhaps our way of retaining memories, only the nice, good things.

Does childhood fall under that ambit? Are our memories of childhood also coloured with nostalgia-coloured lenses? Because all I remember are the nasty things. Things I did, experienced, saw…

How I have said strange things to my friends (friends who are thankfully still my friends) — like I didn’t want to give water once because it would mean getting up and going upstairs, so I told her that water from home had finished. Or when Spider-Man came on, I told her I was going home because I wanted to watch it on a colour TV. Was I even thinking?

How, at least twice, I got to two friends to fight by deliberately creating misunderstandings between them. It was the beginning of the summer holidays and I remember thinking I would get each of them entirely to myself.

How I had a tee that said ‘My school only taught me from A to B’ [I still don’t know what my mother was thinking when she got me that] and how mercilessly I got teased for it.

How a friend once squished my budding breasts and it hurt and even then I realised that being a friend didn’t entitle him to do that. Today when I tell him, he says sorry. But he  went on to get the dubious distinction of the being my only known molester.

How I never got the spellings of twelve, cycle and Andheri right and how people younger to me then got it right, and yes, the teasing.

How, as little girls, wearing a dupatta meant I had arrived. My friend and I would spend afternoons playing with pieces of cloth.

How, every year, my neighbour went on vacation to her native place and had an exciting train journey and then spend another month playing in open fields and orchards  with big groups of cousins and how I hated the fact that I had such a small extended family and how my parents insisted on taking us to new locations every year. Why couldn’t we have a ‘native place’?

How summer play did not stop because of crushes and chemistry and boy and girl. We just played. But then one day we stopped and now when we cross those same boys with their wives and children, nobody even meets the eye. Me included.

I don’t remember when I exactly grew out of it  but there have been times when I have won the Full House on Housie or even gotten the Best Dancer in the building Garba ( I have to add here the others must have been terribly bad as I have no grace on the any kind of dance floor).

And one fine day I left it all behind.

I’d give all wealth that years have piled,
The slow result of Life’s decay,
To be once more a little child
For one bright summer day.
~Lewis Carroll, “Solitude”