When the World goes Round

Over the months I realize that I’ve fallen into one lazy rut. I wake up just in enough time to get ready and reach office on time. I work. And then some more. I sail a few seas. And I go to sleep. Late. And wake up just in time to get ready and reach office on time.

Believe me, I’m not cribbing. Life is rather perfect right now. Just like this.

But one thing that this routine routinely misses out on is reading the newspaper.

Blissful ignorance it was, as I learnt today.

I did pick up the newspaper after long. And this is what I learnt:

• The economy and stock markets are scary terms, again.
• London is up in flames.
• Juhu is black.
• Mumbai has potholes.
• Delhi is scary.
• TOI has decided it’s ok to use random abbreviations in headings (fgn, oppn, really?)
• We are apparently still obsessed with how Jennifer Aniston’s heart was broken by Brad Pitt.
• Rakhi Sawant is asking Sonakshi Sinha to follow her special diet.
• There is yet another Blackberry in this world.
• Aarakshan is still in controversy.
• There are mutant rats that just won’t die.
• And some usual cricket crap.

You know what I want? I want to wake up, and not have to start my day depressed. One day, I think I’ll start a paper which has two parts: the happy, and the sad. Want a chirpy morning? Here’s the nice sunny section which tells you how awesome your country is, how the weather is amazing, how the education system is improving, how opportunities are growing, how amazing the T3 airport is, how inspiring some people and their stories are.

A little further in the day, ready to face the real brutal world? Here’s the section that tells you that you might lose your job, trip over potholes, get raped on the street, feel fat over not following a Bollywood diet, and come back home to super ninja rats with kung-fu moves, which are apparently immune to poison. Oh, and some usual cricket crap.

Whatsay? Any takers?

P.S. No offence meant to the usual cricket crap lovers.

P.P.S. If tomorrow, I do see a happy-sad paper in the market, I will hunt you down and sue you.

Lost

There’s no other word for it. Because I can’t describe it. I just can’t. I’m feeling something, I don’t know if it’s an overload of something, or a void, suddenly cracked open, left for me to leak out of slowly, undetectable, unavoidable…

So here I am, using my blog for what it does best, to think. Here are the thoughts in my head, right now, at this very moment, and in the few moments that have led up to this moment:

Are you a hypocrite, if you have spent your entire life rebelling against control, and suddenly not only willingly succumb to it, accept it, but ask for it?

Is hypocrisy bad?

If your priorities change in life, is it really that big a deal? Have you changed as a person? Or have you finally grown up?

The small brown round things in my oregano, are they some kind of seed, or dead bugs?

How long have they been in there?

Would it really have been so difficult to have spotted them before I polished off my generously garnished meal?

Why did I choke on my medicine?

Why do I find it impossible to hold down a thermometer using my tongue?

Why did I break the thermometer?

Why does something as poisonous as mercury look oh-so-pretty on the bathroom floor?

Why did the last five thoughts and events occur in a span of five minutes?

What has the maid been using to cook, when there seems to be no cooking oil in the house?

Why do I suddenly feel emotions? Why do I like it?

Why am I so happy? Then why do I feel so sad?

Why am I suddenly homesick?

Why does the ship feel lost without its Captain, even if it has been safely anchored?

Why do I actually know the answer to each of the above asked questions, and yet, still ask?

This post does not have a title because I am sad and have an attention span of a nitwit

I cannot remember the last time I wrote a cohesive story, and hence I am sad.

Actually, that’s not true. I’m in general sad, not necessarily because of the lack of ability to weave a lie.

Actually, I’m not sad. Just Blah.

Not too blah though. I cooked yesterday. And I’m still alive. So technically I should be looking at this world as a second chance at life right now, no?

Ooh…raindrops! For a moment there, I thought I’d never feel you splash on my face again. And again. And bloody hell, again.

Ok, so I realised I’m reading too many random blogs nowadays. Do you have any idea the huge number of blogs that become popular just because they write small random un-intelligent things which apparently the world’s population identifies with and replies in tiny witty comments to as well? The amount of pressure to make sure your opinion is funny is enough to fry the crap out of you. And you spend your day wondering what’s so awesome about that writing. And then you can’t write.

So I think I need to restrict my reading and stop reading blogs which use incorrect grammar, sentences smaller than my Tamilian friend’s name, and euphemisms and non-sensical crap disguised as wit. It’s clearly affecting my writing. Not only do I suddenly have nothing to write about, my basic attention span while writing has gone down to that of a nitwit.

Oooh, that reminds me, while reading the works of Franz Kafka yesterday, I realized that he was diagnosed with Schizoid Personality Disorder, which dear Google explained was this:

“Schizoid personality disorder is one of a group of conditions called eccentric personality disorders. People with schizoid personality disorder also tend to be distant, detached, and indifferent to social relationships. They generally are loners who prefer solitary activities and rarely express strong emotion.”

And for a bit, I truly believed that this universe had an explanation for me. But then I pushed Google a little further, and the following was thrown up at me:

“They tend to choose jobs that allow them to work alone, such as night security officers and library or laboratory workers.”

Phew! So I cannot possibly be a Schizoid. Nice to know that most poor security officers or librarians or lab workers are though. See anything wrong with that sentence? No? Hmm. Must be something I ate then.

P.S. Don’t worry Mum, I’m just joking about having a disorder. I don’t think anything major is wrong with me. And if it is, it will one day be discovered, and then after years of scientific research be named Shively Personality Disorder. Cool, no? No? Oh, ok.

P.P.S. I don't mean any disrespect towards people who do suffer from Schizoids. I understand it is a serious disorder, and I wish you all well. Specially if you're spending your time reading my blog.

For the Love of Shoes

It’s funny how the smallest things in life can turn into ordeals for some. Shoe shopping for example, has always been something I look forward to, and something that makes me cry.

It’s almost impossible to find the perfect shoes that you set out to hunt for.

Kinda like men, dontcha think?

Oh well.

Anyhoo…shoe shopping has ALWAYS been a task for me. Some simple things I wish salespersons would keep in mind:

• Am I looking for shoes? In a shoe store? Jeez! That’s a tough one. Let me take a moment to think about how to answer that in a correct and precise manner.
• No, you can’t help me. Because you can’t carry my feet around and push them into shoes, you know?
• No, just because you thrust that shoe almost up my nose, doesn’t mean I can appreciate its prettiness any more than when it was sitting on the stand looking ugly.
• I’m already 5’6”. Try not to make me over 6 feet tall, if possible.
• I know my feet are big. Pointing to the men’s section does not win you any brownie points. Well, you know what they say about men with big feet… Oh wait. That doesn’t apply here, does it?
• When I say I wear a size 39, try to trust me. Don’t get me a 36 and ask me to trust you. Especially when your plans for the next two minutes involve shoving my foot into a casket too small for it.
• The purpose of my shoes are to keep my feet comfortable. I don’t need to be able to see my reflection on them. That’s what mirrors in loos are for. Or up someone’s skirt. That’s what the Delhi perverts are for.
• Oh you think they’re perfect? Buy them then na.
• Try not to look at my bathroom slippers to judge whether I’m worth your time or not.
• Try to not frown because its 21:01 when I’m helping you meet your month’s target, ALDO bitch.

Yeah, ok, so I have a bone to pick with a certain ALDO saleswoman. But that still doesn’t change the fact that shoe shopping can be a pain.

But in my experience, you also happen to find the perfect pair when you least expect it. When you were just ambling along with a friend who’s going frantic looking for shoes. Or when there are two minutes left for the store to close, and the saleswoman is breathing down your neck. Or when Aliens attack, and in the last few moments of life, man’s most exquisite creation presents itself to you, in your size, and the colour you wanted…

But you do find them, when you least expect it.

Kinda like men, dontcha think?

Oh well.

Snippets

Mumbai monsoons. That damned season of the year. It’s back again. Early apparently. How sweet of it.

It’s raining cats and dogs outside right now. Cats and dogs. Funny phrase. I wonder what would actually happen if it rained cats and dogs. A lot of yelping and screeching, I think.

Saw the latest X Men last night. Oh speaking of superpowers and movies, I remember the time I went for the most boring movie on the planet with some friends and Morrison turned to me in a crucial scene and asked, “What’s your superpower?”. First time I met Morrison. And I didn’t know my superpower. Of course I also didn’t know that his name wasn’t Morrison till like a year later. I did find out that he could fly under water, though.

Oooooh, and I’m in love. With my new umbrella. It’s dark blue, with little white hearts, and a white frill at the end. No no, don’t adjust your glasses, lil nerd, or your lenses lil-nerd-in-hiding, you read right. A blue umbrella with hearts and a white frill. Yup. It’s the cutest gift ever. And it’s mine….my precious! <3

Did you know that if you find a fly in your food in Mainland China, and don’t make a fuss about it, you get a free starter? And a membership card? Next time I plan to swap the fly for a dessert. I'm sure the fly won't mind.

Ooooh, I could do with some nice dessert just about now.

I miss Nirula’s HCF. Gooey chocolatey bliss.

Blah, now I miss home.

In the past one month, I have had Iranian food, Kashmiri food, Mughlai, chopsuey, food cooked with love, and food cooked by me.

Ok, so I might have lied about the last one.

In the past one month, I have not looked at the weighing machine.

I forgot what I wanted to write about. I’m forgetting so much nowadays. Should start writing them down.

I want pweetty shoes.

Yes, I’m talking like a girl.

Yes, I’m restless and in a random mood.

Duh.

Congratulations, Einstein.

The Pursuit of HappYness

It struck me the other day, how often most of us are unhappy. Of course, I’m a rather huge case in point. Till recently I might have been a borderline depressed maniac. But then, even in those maniacal-i-might-punch-you-if-you-deliver-one-more-bad-news-to-me days, there were always these tiny little instances, which perhaps provided more joy than all those big goals in life ever will.

So here’s my list of what I think happiness is, in my life:

Happiness is what I feel every time I manage to get an auto in Mumbai
Happiness is that last spoon of sweet milk left at the end of a bowl of strawberry cornflakes

Happiness is being on time, and realising I’m not alone

Happiness is cooking a meal, and realising its edible

Happiness is what I feel when I write with my favourite two rupee pen

Happiness is genuinely laughing at work

Happiness is for once being impulsive and splurging on a pair of Charles & Keith heels

Happiness is hugging an old friend, and realising nothing has changed
Happiness is your hair deciding to cheer you up by becoming extra curly

Happiness is finding a place to stay in Mumbai
Happiness is finally figuring out a Vlookup
Happiness is the amazing service at the Taj

Happiness is a good chicken steak at the end of a really frustrating day

Happiness is waking up to an SMS from someone who cares

Happiness is realising that the monsoons are finally over, for good

Happiness is a blueberry cheesecake, a double choco chip cookie, a fresh fruit juice

Happiness is discovering the wonder of Blogger Stats

Happiness is subsequently realising that the stats don’t matter

Happiness is having choices in life

Happiness is finally making a tough choice

Happiness is being able to share your dreams with someone

Happiness is that someone not laughing at you

Happiness is having a nice dream
Happiness is realising that life is somehow even better than the dream.

P.S. Due credit must go to Richa, who did an almost identical post some time back :)

Dance Baby Dance

You were once a shy kid.

At every birthday party, they would have to force you to dance. Where you would reluctantly get dragged to the tiny floor, make sure you’re far away from the annoying boys, and move your arms a little.

A little older. It’s an achievement to be in the school’s dance team. And do ridiculous fishermen or tribal dances. But the dance teacher selected you. You gloat.

Yet a little older. It’s cool to perform western dances on stage. You know, the cool kids do. In the spotlight. Popularity test to be in the western dance group.

Macarina, Barbie Girl, and Mambo No. 5 is what you groove to. Blue jeans and black tops. Awesome dance troupe.

And yet not so much older.

Dancing on stage is for social retards.

Suddenly not sure if you can dance.

You reluctantly get dragged to the tiny dance floor, make sure you’re far away from the annoying boys, and move your arms a little.

But then you grow up. School becomes college. Dancing becomes a high sport. An expression of your enthusiasm, and you begin to move.

You’re not sure of your moves, but you are sure of the music, and you learn to have fun.

And then you realize the power of the ability to dance. You start to diversify.

You try out your adaa’s on a Kajra Re, make sure your hips are more truthful than Shakira’s.

Songs get sluttier, so do you.

The distance from the annoying boys proportionately decreases.

Suddenly you’re hell bent on proving you’re more badnaam than Munni, and definitely more jawaan than Sheila.

Salsa and belly dancing are the tricks of the trade.

You grow up yet more.

Smiling, and looking socially decent in a pretty sari becomes priority. You move a little bit on the dance floor, with family, for the cameras. But most importantly, you look pretty, and stay within socially accepted norms.

You grow up yet more.

Arthritis and weight happens to catch up.

Moving your hands in an imitation of Bhangra is now the only socially accepted mode of dancing.

For exactly 5 minutes.

You’re old.

You sit in a chair.

You look at youngsters in their various phases of dancing.

You frown disapprovingly.

You tap your feet.

And smile at memories.

For the love of life

It’s been a lazy Sunday. A nice lazy Sunday. But what most lazy Sundays do to me by the end of the day, is challenge my brain to work overtime on some completely futile thought.

Thought for the day: alternate reality

Disclaimer: No, I wasn’t thinking of inception, limbo, virtual reality or any other crap. Though that’s pretty much what this will sound like. I was simply thinking.

I’m living a life. A life created by quite a few logical decisions, a life which I continue to live by taking many more logical decisions every day, and well, a few not-so-logical and impulsive ones.

I wish I could freeze this life, in time, just make it pause, lift away from it, smile down at it, and land myself into my alternate life. A life which starts right where I switched, but where I decide differently, not necessarily based on logic, but more on instinct. More on what I genuinely feel like doing, rather than what I think might be good for me in the future.

I’d like to meet random people, and have all the fun at all the places and parties on the planet. I’d like to spend all my money, travel and shop till my last penny. I’d like to be giddy with a kiddish crush. I’d like to not think about the future. I’d like to not think about age. And expectations. I’d like to run so far away that reality becomes a distant memory.

I’d like to self destruct.

And then I’d like to return, to my frozen, logical life. I’d like to have seen and experienced all that I gave up on, and know that it was worth it. I’d like to believe that being mature and thinking through everything I do is actually what’ll make me happy.

I’d like to know, that my instinct has always been wrong, just like I believe it to be.

I’d like to know, that I am right.

Please?

5 Seconds to Life

I happen to be one of those people who just love travelling by flights. Till date, every time I enter an airport, I still explore each of its shops and eateries with the same childlike curiosity, as when I had first stepped foot onto the tiny almost non-existent Lucknow airport, at the age of seven.

The first time I sat in a Shatabdi, I was told “This is what an airplane is like…just that it’s in the air.”

And I still like to take the window seat, I still go through the safety manual, I still see the safety instructions, I still feel something funny in my tummy when the flight takes off, I still try to spot my house from the flight, and I still look forward to in-flight meals, whatever they might be like.

But the one part, which I always always apprehensively look forward to, is the landing. Let me try and describe the situation, which in my head, repeats itself without fail, each flight.

You’re sitting at the window, looking at the endless cottony clouds spread out across the landscape, beckoning you wickedly to come out and play with them. And suddenly, you dip right through them, and get a slightly hazy, yet steadily approaching view of the land underneath. You look in wonder as the merging forms appear and start to make sense, and the approach of civilization becomes imminent. And then the brick structures start to come into sight, dangerously close, until all you can see is twinkling lights at the air port, and a long stretch of tar infused to form the grey stretch where you’ll eventually land.

The runway approaches, faster than you had expected it to, and within moments you’re right above it. And then the 5 seconds begin.

These are the 5 seconds, when you literally hold your breath, because you know you’re going to make contact with something solid, while you’re at a dangerously high speed. These are the 5 seconds where you wonder if your entire long successful flight, is really going to end successfully or not. These are the 5 seconds where you remember how you said goodbye to your loved ones. These are the 5 seconds you feel confused about whether you’re still airborne, or whether it was an exceptionally smooth landing. These are the 5 seconds where the entire world ceases to exist, where noise is tuned out, your senses numbed, and worries take a back seat, as all your concentration is on the moment the aircraft will touch the runway.

And then with a thud, you hit the ground, and you’re jolted back to reality. The noise swooshes its way back into your ears, your worries and appointments for the day easily squeeze their way back into your brain, and with pure impatience the air is filled with the beeps of cellphones being switched on despite the airhostess’s announcements against it.

You get up and pretend that those 5 seconds didn’t exist for you.

But for me, those 5 seconds, are 5 seconds that I look forward to, that I’m scared of, that I know, could just be the last 5 seconds of my life.

Quirky Doodle Doo

So years and years ago, when blogging was a huge fad, and everyone blogged and commented on each others’ posts, called one another up just to remind them to read and comment, and tagged tagged and tagged…I was tagged in a random post about ten weird things about myself.

For reasons unknown, or perhaps well thought out, I never bothered going ahead with that particular tag. But since this blog really seems to have no quality control anymore, and I am just that bored in office, here are ten quirks about me, that perhaps you might have been better off not knowing at all.

1. I have a weird thing for symmetry. Be it clips on my bulletin board, the justification tab on MS Word, sleeves of my shirt, a drawing, a poem anything. It has to have some level of symmetry in it. It throws me completely off, and I can concentrate on nothing else till I achieve symmetry in whatever is there before me, in a weird-ass pattern. And well, sometimes the colours matter as well. The darker colours in the middle, the lighters outside, make it a rather balanced pattern.
2. However, when it comes to geography, I dearly believe that things should NEVER be symmetrical. It isn’t humanly possible to remember the way if things look the same left to right, and right to left! Connaught Place will always remain a pure untamed wonder to me!
3. I am a stationery freak. No explanation required. Paper clips to pens to notebooks to….oh…my favourite….Post Its…. SIGH.
4. I’m an organized mess. HUH?? Well. I’m not a very clean person. There will be clothes and stuff everywhere in my room. BUT, in my head, there is some pattern to it, and I will NOT stand you messing around with my mess!
5. I absolutely absolutely cannot stand anyone brushing my eyebrows in the opposite direction. I will literally punch the person who dares to do this. To me its comparable to others hating nails on the blackboard, or some other quirkier people hating two thermocol pieces rubbed against each other :P :P :P
6. I have a weird habit of randomly whistling while working or thinking about something. Not a big deal right? EXCEPT, I’m usually working or thinking in the middle of a very quiet class room or an office meeting. NOT cool.
7. I can talk and talk and talk when I’m with guys. Not so much with girls. Still haven’t figured that one out L
8. Men’s perfume. Hmmmm…
9. I go through weird phases when it comes to emotions. There were years in between when I genuinely couldn’t get myself to cry, even though I was well aware of the fact that the situation demanded it. And then there were these two years, when the waterworks worked overtime, and anything from a Shah Rukh Khan movie, a low pay check, to even a Tom and Jerry cartoon made me cry. Embarrassed much? Duh.
10.  

I’m still thinking about point 10. As it turns out, I’m not weird and quirky enough to have ten points.

Yayyy?

Let's Stalk

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The Land of Dreams et al.

I can feel it in the very essence of my bones. Resonating through the frayed nerves, mixing with the very base of my blood and existence.

I always feel it, and it takes all my will power to keep it within me.

I’m about to lash out. Illogically and emotionally. Big time.

Bollywood.

That amazing land where singing is second nature to everyone from a baby to the 200 year old granny, and dancing around trees is commonsensical to one and all.

The land where the spoilt rich girl falls for the oh-life-is-so-poor-but-beautiful servant.

The land where forty year old men can pass off as college students.

The land where the spot boy becomes the film star.

The land where life is beautiful.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Bollywood as much as the next person, and pay amazingly huge amounts of money every other weekend to contribute to the ever growing pockets of the producers. But oh -my-God. How in this whole wide crazy world can people give Bollywood the right to define their lives????

Or worse…expect it to define mine?

How is it that there are so many people in this world who believe that life is meant to be beautiful? That life is about seeing the beauty in small things and the people and that money doesn’t buy happiness? That it’s good to be romantic and see the romance in every freaking thing in life? Getting drenched in the rain, little cute kids, the mountains and the sea, the first smile, the first kiss, the view from the top, the wind, the inspiration from the road, the love and the villain, the sexiness and the lust, the crowd and the local train, the first time the eyes meet…the description of everything in life in terms of visuals and the feelings they inspire, rather than vice versa.

And believe me, till here, I’m still perfectly fine with things. To each his own. After all, Bollywood wasn’t created out of thin air, it is, I’m assuming, based on popular thoughts and beliefs.

But what really gets to me is the stubbornness of this lot.

If I can accept them, why is it so difficult for them to accept me?

The fact that I don’t see beauty the way they do? That I prefer my life unpopulated and clean, comfortable and cool, with money and without emotions, far away from the maddening crowd. Why do I disappoint them so? And why is it so difficult for them to believe that I can be happy in ways very different from them? And that, for God’s sake, it’s not their responsibility to show me what happiness is, and how I should go about achieving it?

Why is it so difficult to tolerate my views and my perspective?

And believe just for a tiny little second, that a thought and a feeling might just come to me before the ideal visual from a movie does?

Of Hope and Vibes

Hope and Vibes.

Two things I’m not necessarily known for talking about.

But there are times the two terms hit you, by their excessive presence, or mere absence.

I’m not necessarily a person who judges people fast or easy, and I have been known to make mistakes before. I personally feel I end up being so indifferent to people around me for so long, that by the end of it, it really just depends on whether they’ve still stuck around or not, and my judgement just chills and pretends to blow smoke rings in some dusty corner of my brain.

If that makes any sense at all.

And it’s the same when it comes to places, opportunities, things. It takes time for a like or dislike to register in my head, until something really pleases me, or manages to push all the wrong buttons at the same time. A hypothetical example perhaps would be asking me to take an auto to a place where no auto ever agrees to go, sit in an extremely hot room, with someone who has a total library of one topic to talk about, and eat vegetarian food….Immediate dislike. On the other hand, if you pick me up in a nice AC car to a nice place with continental chicken and talk about Media and the world, and of course, wear a good perfume…well...Get the drift?

But recently, in a span of two days, I’ve felt them…those eerie things called…vibes.

I went to a place which seemed perfect to me, something I’d dreamt about for quite some time, and finally got the opportunity to visit…and I disliked it…for no logical reason on this planet. Everything was there exactly the way I’d imagined it…and yet things just didn’t seem right. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. And I don’t feel like ever going back. Only one explanation in my head…vibes.

And the very next day, I forced myself to get out of bed and go to yet another place, out of obligation to someone, and basic logic. And I entered the building. It was a mess. Chaos redefined. Crowded, dirty, unorganized, unfriendly. And I couldn’t stop smiling. It just seemed perfect. It was all there…the vibes.

And all this weirdly gave me another thing I don’t usually believe in…hope.

Because somewhere, I think, God’s looking down at me and chuckling to himself (herself?!).

Completely enjoying giving me a taste of my supposedly preferred medicine.

Because if God is half as twisted as I believe him (her?) to be...


It's going to be one helluva life!!! :D :D :D

Interim

So I really really couldn’t think of anything to write about.

So I asked.

And so now I have topics.

Weird ones to say the least.

• ·         Importance of perfumes
• ·         Porn
• ·         Bollywood
• ·         Delhi Winters
• ·         The Ride to Nowhere
• ·         Deepika Padukone
• ·         Shoe Lace
• ·         Writers Block
•        The 100 Truths

So here goes.

The Un-Weekend

Disclaimer: I feel like writing, but my brain wont comply. Sorry for the random string of sentences.

In the almost six months in Mumbai, the tiny excuse of a weekend that I have after working every Saturday has more or less fallen into a tried and tested pattern.

Someplace nice, loud, and late on Saturday, sleep through the next day, out for coffee or dinner again on Sunday.

And then came this weekend.

Random.

The one begging to be different.

And so after yet another useless day at work, I walked home, took a nice refreshing shower, and plonked down in bed.

With a book. After a very very long time. And in bed I stayed. With the book. All evening till midnight.

P.S. Shantaram, I love you.

And I slept…by far the earliest ever on a Saturday.

And hence I woke up, earlier than the rest of the denizens of my age, 10 AM, on Sunday.

And for once I didn’t wait for the others to wake up. For once I didn’t plan. For once I just set out.

Alone.

It’s a funny experience. Made even funnier by the fear and trepidation in our heads I feel.

I watched a movie. And then I headed out for lunch. The much awaited, much craved for pepper chicken steak. Finally!

So people stared. So the waiter asked me twice if I wanted just a place for one. So my food came extremely fast, maybe to clear out the single person occupying the place for two.

But I smiled. It was amusing. I wondered what they were thinking. And it amused me even more.

And then he came. My first love.

That beautiful pepper chicken steak.

And nothing else mattered.

I tipped well, I smiled at the waiters, and I walked home.

Oh, and its nice to walk, when its by choice!


And there was so much more I loved about the day for one. I didn't have to shut any one up during the movie. I didn't need to smile and make small talk. I didn't have to care about where the other person wanted to eat, or what cuisine s/he liked. And I could dedicate myself wholeheartedly to my food, without distractions.

Afternoon was spent cozying up with Shantaram again, and he didn’t disappoint.

Evening was out shopping for necessities with Roomie.

The night ended with a blueberry cheesecake.

And a day which ends with a blue berry cheesecake, is a day well ended indeed.

Note: This annoying, weird post goes out to all those who laughed and doubted.

The Other Shreya

Funny funny things happen in people’s lives.

So a colleague of mine would often mention that she has another friend called Shreya, who was actually like me and looked like me. And I would respond, well the way most people respond to such statements - which are made rather often I assume – by smiling and changing the topic.

Sure, you have a tall friend who’s called Shreya. Ooooh….so totally my twin!!

And then she showed me the other Shreya’s facebook profile. And other pictures. And…erm….I’m assuming for at least this once a picture really is worth a thousand words.

So, introducing, the other Shreya….…….

The Other Shreya!

My granny says that everyone has one other person in the world who looks exactly the same…humshakal as they say. Of course it’s highly possible that particular theory evolved from this thing called Bollywood..with the Don’s etc. of the movie world.

Then there is of course the Kumbh ka Mela theory. My twin? But with the same name?? Did we get separated and confused about which one was who??

And I hope the other Shreya doesn’t stumble across my blog and sue me for using her picture. But if she does, before she gets really angry, I’d just like to ask…isn’t this a tad wee bit freaky???

And more importantly…

Do you have any issues with bad luck in your life?

The..ahem... Original Shreya

Believer

I have been called a pessimist in the past.

Yeah well.

That part is true.

But what is also true is that I have never believed in luck, fate, destiny et all.

But today, as I sit at my now yellow desk, my head pounding, back hurting, and legs aching, I beg to differ.

Disclaimer: I am about to crib. Big time. I am about to wallow in self pity and be the most negative person on the planet. Because sometimes, just sometimes in life I should be allowed to. Because sometimes I feel like I’m jinxed. Sometimes, it all gets a little too much. And I need to let it out.

So I’m going to recap to around a year ago. Just to put it down on paper. Officially.

My awesome luck.

I got through to the highest paying summer internship. I got the hardest project.

I got the Second Best Intern award. Everyone other than me landed the final job offer.

I let go of most companies for placements. I got beat by a chatterbox in the final stage of my dream company.

I slogged throughout the year for the college fest. I didn’t get to attend the college fest.

I’m from Delhi, I moved to Mumbai for my job. He’s from Mumbai, he moved to Delhi for his job.

I never ever wanted to work on TAM again. My first stint in my company was with TAM.

I got to work directly with the CEO of my company in my first stint. I didn’t get to work.

I joined this company to work in a certain department. Half the department moved out.

I finally shifted to my dream department in the company. The movie I was supposed to work on shifted out of the department.

Moving onto more mundane, and yet more annoying things in life:

5/6 of the time, I don’t manage to get an auto home.

2/3 of the time, I influence the luck of people I am with to not get an auto home.

I waited for months for my birthday this year.

I spent half the day standing in the heat at the RTO office, waiting for my driver’s test.

I spent another hour standing in the heat waiting for Tomato, who was right there.

I broke the zip of my brand new dress, bought and saved specially for the day.
Oh and my license arrived a week later. It says SHERYA Shively.

I spent my last weekend in Bangalore.

Meru in Mumbai went on strike the day before I had to leave.

My Easy Cab cancelled on me 45 minutes before I was due to leave.

It was 3.30 in the morning.

I ended up paying three times the usual amount, to be able to catch my flight.

Thankfully in Bangalore, there was no Meru strike.

My Meru never turned up.

And I know this seems to be a bit of a stretch, but on arrival, my bag, and I kid you not, my bag was the absolute last bag to come on the conveyer belt.

My auto guy made me get off outside the airport once he realized that I knew a bit about Mumbai. By a bit, I mean the fact that the meters actually work, and that it doesn’t take 300 bucks to reach Andheri.

I dumped my bag and headed to office.

The lifts weren’t working. I work on the 6^th floor.

Again, I kid you not, but the moment I planted my ass on my chair, the lifts started working again.

Now I know most people will say I’m just looking at it the wrong way…that I’m not paying attention to all the good things in life…that the glass is actually half full and all that crap.

More than a year of this.

Think about it.

Am I really crazy for freaking out right now?

Is it that stupid to start believing in my lack of luck?

And to be scared?