She

She moves over me,
Teasing my senses.
I reach for her
She eludes my grasp.

Whispers in my ears,
Her hypnotic lullaby.
I drift off to sleep…

She steals closer
Gives me her lover’s kiss
Drinks my blood
Roused me from languor
My fight is pointless
The deed is done
The die is cast…

One last thought
Before darkness descended-

Will I contract malaria?

Legacy

Does the picture look blurry and fuzzy? Don't blame the camera. This is what the view from my house looked like this evening.

On March 5th, 1966, the city of Aizawl went up in flames. Bombs were dropped on the city, and families fled their homes. Fathers, mothers, husbands, brothers and friends were lost. March 5th became Mizoram's State Day, in remembrance of that day when our city became engulfed by an inferno sent by an indifferent, tyrannical ruler.

My grandfather was a soldier of the resistance. He lost his eldest son during this movement. His wife, my grandmother, was imprisoned with the year old son that had been as yet unweaned from her breast. Their children were shunted off to relatives in villages- scared and uncertain of whether they would ever see their parents again.

Our grandfathers fought for a cause, and though that cause may have been misguided, they battled on against heavy odds, because they wanted a better future for their children, and their children's children. Theirs was a noble fight, fought for the betterment of their people. That was the legacy left to us by our ancestors.

And what legacy will we leave to OUR children?

The land that embraced the noble blood of our ancestors is now ravaged and raped by us, their children. We tear down it's forests to make way for our concrete monstrosities; we poison the clear waters that cooled the throats of our braves; we pollute the air that sustained our ancestors; and we scarify the land that inspired our troubadours with its savage beauty.

Today, fire broke out at Beraw Tlang, at the University lands in Tanhril, and In Kanan Veng. City dwellers blame poverty-stricken village farmers for the forest fires that raged on for more than three days at Kawnpui a couple of weeks ago. These farmers make their meagre livings the only way they know, in the only recourse left to them. And we city folks sit in our cushy living rooms, in our big mansions built on mountain edges where no houses should ever have been built. We complain about them polluting the air, as we drive around in our cars, stuck once more in a deluge of traffic.

They ravage the land so that they can live. We ravage our land so that we can boast of our wealth. Which one do you think our Mother would point Her finger at, as the harbinger of Her death?

On March 5th 1966, WE were the victims of an injustice. Our city was engulfed in flames. Our fathers rebuilt it.

This century, we are the perpetrators of the injustice. We barricade ourselves from outsiders, fearing that they may take our land away from us. And yet, and yet... we are the ones who are destroying our land. We are the enemies. We cast indifferent eyes on our Mother as she struggles in Her throes of death.

We are slowly burning up our land with the relentless flames of our greed. Will we leave it to our children to rebuild it? Will there even be a Mizoram to rebuild?

Is this the legacy that we are leaving to our children?

"Did you, did you see the frightened ones

Did you, did you hear the falling bombs?

Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter

When the promise of a brave new world

Unfurled beneath a clear blue sky?

Goodbye, blue sky, goodbye" - Pink Floyd

"Did they get you to trade

your heroes for ghosts?

Hot ashes for trees

Hot air for a cool breeze?"- Pink Floyd

Breakin' up

Dear C

I refuse to feel this way anymore. And I know I was warned, but I loved you anyway, not knowing how addicted I would be to you.

Look at me, look what your love has wrought. See my thin frame, my lifeless skin. Hear the erratic beat of my heart, the breathlessness in my voice. See me lie to cover for you. See me throwing away what little money I have on you.

Yes, I know you were always there for me. On cold winter nights, lazy summer days and stormy monsoon afternoons. You were there- all I had to do was stretch out my hand. But I know that wasn’t a privilege I was accorded exclusively. You were there for anyone who had money to spend on you.

And you came cheap, didn’t you?

But no, this wasn’t supposed to be a diatribe against you. I knew what you were like. I entered this with my eyes open. My friends thought you were cool, so I decided to see what you were all about.

A few stolen kisses, and I was lost.

And you know the saddest part? Right now, even as I speak of giving you up, all I want is to hold you, feel you against my lips and inhale that heady scent of you.

But…

I want to be a mother someday. And to be a woman means you have to think not only about yourself, but also about your unborn children. And I don’t want to raise a family with you.

I can’t take that chance. Don’t want to see the condemnation on my children’s faces for saddling you with them. Don’t want them to repeat my mistakes and fall for someone like you.

My birthday’s coming up. And that day I will give myself the greatest gift- a life without you.

I know I will never really get over you. Songs will remind me of you. Lonely nights I’ll remember that you’re only a breath away. And I'll yearn for you, for the way you used to make me feel.

And always, always….the smell of you… alluring..drawing me in.

But I WILL give you up.

And maybe, I will finally be able to breathe easy again.

DIE..

Love,

A cigarette-free Ku2.

p.s. Tried some new emoticon-y stuffs, and now I'm :p -ing up all over the place.I sooo suck at this tech stuffs. But this is an irreverent post anyway, so bring on the :p Lol, I love this. This has got to be the most unsentimental break up letter ever. HAH!

blogger!

Is it just me or does the word "blogger" sound like a mild profanity?

Ever since I started this blogging thing, I'm getting a picture of how small my world-view is.

I have skimmed through a lot of blogs and have come across seriously good ones. No, I'm not naming names. Too many to mention.

I've found that (and I'm generalising here) blogs maintained by men are more objective and issue-specific.

The blogs maintained by women are usually subjective and personal.

I am in no way comparing myself with the guys here because I am specifically non-issue-ic. I leave that to people more knowledgeable than me.

But when I read through the blogs of other women, it kinda makes me feel small. While I just go on and on and ON about me, they write about their personal experiences so beautifully. Their writings are inspirational, insightful, funny yet informative, angsty yet not selfish or self-pitying, and all with a gracefulness of style that I can not hope to emulate.

They make me feel like a demented ostrich running wild among a flock of flamingoes.

So... will I write insightful, inspirational pieces? Focus more on others than on 'me? Write for a purpose, with a meaning?

Heck, no! That is exactly what I mean! That is not 'me'. I can't force myself to be all that. I can't make myself graceful when I have all the subtlety of a bazooka.

So, what's the point of this little missive, then?

Well, its just an acknowledgement of the fact that I remain incorrigibly self-centred. And also that I appreciate what other bloggers have done.

And that I really, truly appreciate the people who are kind enough to drop in, actually read my petty ramblings, and leave their comments here. You make me believe that the world has a place for shallow kinds like me :)

A Long Distance Relationship and Me

It's official. From tomorrow, I'm going to be one half of a long distance relationship. I'm already missing him. Listening to Snow Patrol's "Run", Plain White T's "Hey There Delilah" and other distance-y songs. I don't know how other people in LDRs cope but I'm already coping badly.

Of course, it helps that it's going to be for only two nights, and the place he's going to is only three hours ride from here, but still!!

Okay, okay, I know I'm over-reacting a teeny bit, but I really hate that we're not going to be in the same town, even for just a couple of nights. I'm really starting to admire people who are able to successfully maintain a LDR. It would really drive me nuts if I am in an actual one. Big thumbs-up to all you successful LDR's out there.

Now on to my favourite subject- ME!

# I firmly believe that it's better to be single than to be in a meaningless relationship. So, I have never been in a relationship that's lasted for more than a month. Now, though, my guy and I are in our sixth year, so when I fell, I fell HARD. In fact...

# In fact, when I realised that I was serious about him, I became obsessed with standing out from the girls he's dated, and the girls he would date if we didn't work out (Touchwood!). So I went overboard as usual and one of the first gifts I gave him was a corpse of a baby snake some friends had killed when we went trekking. I was lucky that he was also similarly obsessed with me, so he didn't freak out- much. My logic (if it could be called that) was that I preferred him to think I was weird rather than that he'd think I was like every other girl.

# I consider myself lucky that I'm not scared of lizards, spiders, rats, snakes and other creep-crawlies, but if I happen to see even one of those tiny worms living inside veggies, I can cry for hours.

# I don't know how its like to see the world through two eyes. When I was barely a year old, I had some severe illness which made me completely cock-eyed. My left eye would constantly stare at my right eye to see what it was up to. That condition's gone, but I have a lazy left eye that's almost completely blind. So I see the world through one eye, while the left eye is there for decorative purposes.

# My milk teeth were small and dainty, and when they fell out, they were replaced with these big teeth clamouring for space inside my mouth. Some protruded, some grew sideways, and some grew inwards. I used to be really self-conscious, but I refused to have braces. Now that I've crossed 25, I decided that life's too short to use crooked teeth as an excuse not to laugh out loud. So I laugh and smile, not caring (too much) that my front tooth is on sideways :D

#Speaking of teeth, all the Barbies I had when I was a kid had badly mangled feet because I chewed and gnawed on them constantly. I think I chewed my Barbies more than I played with them.

# There is a glitch in my brain that renders me unable to whistle, tell where is north, east, west or south, confuse my left and right, and be unable to tie shoelaces tightly.

#That same glitch caused me untold grief when I first learnt how to write. I could not write the letters 'D' and 'S' without going all the way round my desk. My dad would hold my butt, and with tears pouring down my face, I would struggle to write these two letters without moving from where I was.

#I am a total wuss when it comes to confrontations.

#I am actually very shy (surprise, surprise), and when I meet someone for the first time, I either talk too much, or I talk too less. So people's first impression of me is either "a pushy flirt" or "a snob" :(

But I am actually a nice person, kooky and weird-yes, but nice. And I talk too much. So bye now

Know thine own self.

The Pastor had been serving there for just over five months when he heard about the Church’s neighbours. Apparently, the family had been living there for more than thirty years, spoke the local language like natives, and yet, they were still devout Muslims. The Pastor thought it odd that the closest neighbours of the Church had still not accepted the Christian faith. He decided to pay them a visit.

His first impression of the family was one of solidarity and respect towards each other. He was warmly and politely welcomed, and the old patriarch of the family, who looked to be in his seventies ushered him in to the simple but clean drawing room, accompanied by one of his sons.

The Pastor and the old man made small talk, and the old man impressed the Pastor with his humility and quiet strength. The Pastor decided to ask him why he had not converted to Christianity. The old man smiled and said, “Sir, quite a number of your church’s elders and pastors have visited me frequently over the years, asking the same question. I will tell you the same thing that I have told them”.

“I respect Christianity. I have read your Bible, in Hindi and Mizo, and I agree with many of the things that are written there. But what I fail to understand is how the people who claim to live their lives on the basis of that Holy Book has made such a mockery of the words written there.”

“I have witnessed your youth groups make announcements that the church should be respected and sanctified. I have seen them with their banners and slogans. But I believe that one should not be told to respect the church. We respect our mosques. Our children learnt to respect it because we, their fathers, respect it. We learnt to respect because our fathers and their fore-fathers respect our places of worship. We do not need to be told or taught. We saw, and we followed.”

“And I have seen these same youths smoking inside my compound and littering it. I accept that they do not want to do these things within the church’s compound, but does that give them the right to do those things inside my compound?”

The Pastor stammered, “I will speak to them about it. I’m sorry, I was unaware of that. It is just as wrong for them to defile other people’s properties as it is to defile the church.”

The old man shook his head in negation. “Please, do not do that. They will only resent me, and I wish to live in peace with my neighbours. Perhaps, in time, they will learn. And even if they do not, I would rather that they do that here than within your church’s compounds.”

The old man’s son, who up till then, had remained silent, suddenly addressed the Pastor.

“Sir, those same youths, who attend church faithfully with their ties and suits, accosted me a few days ago. They called me a dirty Muslim, accused me of being a Taliban, and one of them even slapped my face. I have been living in this locality longer than some of them, and I am still the outsider. Is that what Christianity means? Attacking someone because their religion and their race is different?”

Before the Pastor could respond, the old man spoke sharply to his son. “Be quiet. This is a man of God, and also your elder. You will show him the proper respect. Attacking him because of what some misguided fools did to you only puts you in the same level as those fools themselves.”

The Pastor interjected, “See, sir, that is exactly what I am trying to say. A lot of people think that the Taliban and the al-qaeda represent Islam, but you and I know that is not so. And in the same way, don’t disregard Christianity just because of a few misguided people. Our religion teaches love, and not hate, salvation, and not persecution”.

The old man wearily replied, “My religion, in fact, all religions have at their core, the message of love. I have been to your camps and your crusades. Your speakers reprimand me from the Pulpit, talking about God’s anger and His retribution. They embrace all of the negatives, enforce every law, insist on all forms of denial, and demand strict punishment for every offense”.

“And yet, they largely ignore the beautiful facets of Christianity that I have seen in the Bible. They ignore Christianity’s compassion and mercy, disobey its ethics of love, and flout the gentle laws laid down by Jesus”.

The Pastor sighed, realizing that what the old man said was true. He recalled the recent Non-Mizo Fellowship, and how they had almost forcibly herded the unconverted towards the counseling halls. Christianity was about free will, and not about forcing one’s beliefs unto others.

As he made to leave, the old man thanked him for his visit.

“Please understand that I am not against your religion. If you think about it, we are the same. We both worship one God, and from Him, we derive faith, hope and belief. I have told my family that they are all free to choose the religion that gives them peace, hope and sustenance. Maybe one of them will find that in your church.”

“And I know that you don’t believe in my God, but I pray to Him for your leaders and your church.”

“As I will,” said the Pastor, “As I will do for you, sir.”

The Pastor walked slowly home, wondering why he felt so humbled and so old. He recalled the zealous young man he had been when he was first appointed by the church. He also remembered what one of his teachers had told him, that the greatest threat to one’s faith is not from outside forces, but within ourselves.

“The greatest threat towards Christianity is we Christians ourselves”, mused the old Pastor.

Then he locked himself inside his room, got down on his knees and began to pray.

*Based on accounts given by various church elders and Pastors who had gone to visit this old man*

Da*n You, Hollywood!

"For June, who loved this garden, from Joseph who always sat beside her"- Notting Hill.

This has by far been the most beautiful, eloquent and envy-worthy lines that I have heard. It was inscripted on a park bench, and I can just imagine these two couples- June sitting there, staring at couples kissing, families playing, children laughing, and Joseph drinking in his fill of June. I wanted to be June, with my own Joseph watching the 'changing seasons of my face', loving my wrinkles and my grey hair. ***sigh***

Now that's the problem with Hollywood. Yes, Nottinghill was about a foppish Hugh Grant and a toothy but adorable Julia Roberts, but the insertion of the aforementioned line, and the fact that when the movie ends, Hugh and a pregnant Julia sat on the very same bench... it conquered and vanquished and annihilated me completely.

I found my very own 'Joseph', but the BENCH and the inscription failed to mention the trials and the very loooong journey that the fabled June and Joseph took. So there I was, sure that I was living a fairy tale, when reality and familiarity revealed that my 'Joseph' and I had conflicting opinions on sooo many things. We fight, hit below the belt, slash at each other with words and crucify each other with silences. And in the end we feel as miserable as "the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum" (My Best Friend's Wedding).

I blame Hollywood and also Nicholas Sparks for the sometimes too-high standards which I expect my man to live up to. Nicholas Sparks made me cry with "A Walk to Remember", "Message in a Bottle", "Dear John" and "The Notebook", all adapetd by Hollywood.

But what really got me was "The Notebook". Guy falls for girl, her parents say "nay" and send her away. Guy builds her dream house by himself, with his own two hands, and never falls in love again. Girl becomes engaged to another guy, a very nice guy too. But she goes back to original guy. They get married, and here's the clincher- she gets dementia, and the guy stays in the nursing home with her. He waits patiently for her lucid moments, which sometimes lasts for just an hour, and that too after long intervals. When she is lucid, he woos her all over again and he tells her their story. Sometimes she regresses in the middle of his story-telling and lashes out at him. But he persists. And in the end, he sneaks into her room, and she is having a lucid moment, and they die together. Damn you, Nicholas Sparks, how dare you create a man like that??

And that movie "P.S, I love you" (another book adaptation too).. My sister's husband refused to let her watch the movie again and I don't blame him. Come on, the guy had such a charming Irish 'blarney' ..charm. And what was worse, when he died, he left behind love letters for his wife, so that she can rebuild her life and fulfill her dreams. ***sigh again***

I feel sorry for men sometimes. Hollywood presents them with such a tough act to follow. The girls have it easier. The girl from "The Notebook" was kind of fickle, loud, spoilt, adorable, yes, but irritating too. And though the "P.S. I love you" girl was special in that dreamy, vibrant, whimsical and vulnerable way, it was not in an out-of-reach" way. And the worst part is, we women tend to buy into the whole act, and sometimes expect our good, but human men to live upto these celluloid images. Men don't really expect us to be Megan Fox (okay, some do).

John Mayer got it right when he sang:

She's like a maze where all the walls are continually changed,

And I've done all I can

To stand on her steps with my heart in my hands,

Now I'm starting to see

Maybe its got nothing to do with me - 'Daughters'.

I'm really trying now to not buy into the whole Hollywood myth. I have learnt that 'real' men, after watching "The Notebook" say, "Don't you dare die on me, or become mad, hear?" and then give you a suffocating bear hug :) And yes, one doesn't automatically become eligible for June and Joseph state just because they are in love. It takes guts, blood, sweat, tears, muscle, gumption, mucus (ok- drama queen again).

And we women too need to be more of a 'June ' sometimes. Yes, men should love us for our imperfect selves, but its only fair that we play nice occasionally too :)

PS: I didn't include Twilight because much as I loved the character of Edward Cullen when I first read the series, Robert Pattinson pretty much killed it for me.. Yucks!

Be afraid :p

Had a hard time going to sleep last night even though I had taken some medication for my pounding headache. This was because I had read some horror novel, and all my old scary thoughts came creeping in.

Slept with the lights on and decided to listen to music to distract myself. But I was scared that 'something' may sneak up on me and I won't be able to hear it because of the music, so I turned it off again. Drifted in and out of sleep, and then I made the stupid mistake of glancing at my clock. It was nearing 3:OO am- the witching hour! The time (supposedly) when the portals between Hell and earth opened and spirits can roam the earth. Needless to say, I was jolted out of sleep in a hurry.

Now I'm groggy and bleary and my mom has refused to let me sleep during day time and I feel absolutely miserable. And misery loves company, so I'm sharing my scary thoughts in the hope that someone may read it and would have to spend a sleepless night with the lights on (cackle) :

1. Waking up at night and some woman with shaggy hair peers at you through your bed curtains. (Because of this fear, I refused to have bed curtains for two years)

2. Waking up at night and that same shaggy haired woman has her face up cloooose to yours. (This is even worse. At least the bed curtains offer a little defense. So I've started putting them up again recently)

3. Waking up (again!) and there's a child sitting on the floor beside your bed, giggling madly. (It's worse if the child is a little girl with shaggy, unkempt hair)

4. Walking on a deserted road at night and turning suddenly to see an old woman with unkempt hair just standing behind you, staring at you intently. (This actually happened to me, and I screamed loudly at the poor dear's face. No, she wasn't a ramhuai, just someone's granny *eeps*)

5. Looking at myself in the mirror and my mirror image suddenly reaches out a hand and pulls my hair (I absolutely refuse to look at the mirror after midnight)

6. Latching my window close at night and a pale, child's hand suddenly grasps hold of it (Yes, 'Wuthering Heights'. I love the novel but I only read it when someone sleeps with me)

Knowing how much of a coward I am, I do not watch horror movies anymore. But the one's that I have watched (the ones where they crawl backwards on ladders, exorcisms, scary clowns et al) have really done a number on me. Anyway, they don't sound too scary when said out loud, but when your'e alone at night and there's a power cut and you can't sleep, and you really need to use the bathroom... And I can't go sleep in my sister's room because she would never respect my authority again as the older sister. So this is the only way I can vent- hoping that someone else will think about them too :D

P.S: Wonder why so many of my fears have something to do with hair. Maybe it's time for a new haircut and conditioner.

"The other half of the sky is the most beautiful"- For Mother-i

I am blessed with the best mother in the whole wide world.

Unconventional yet traditional, outspoken yet respectful, pious yet pragmatic. And always strong. That's my momma.

Your'e one of my best friends but you never let me lose sight of the fact that your'e also my mother. I remember telling you that I am scared of marriage. And you told me that, despite the fact that our religion and culture is against it, you actually approve the idea of live-in, trial marriages! Of course, you hastened to add that you did not want to actually let me make that kind of arrangement :-)

I like that you told me that I should quit smoking, but gave me the option to make my own decision as an adult without imposing your authority on me. I like that you always treat me as an adult, and refuse to sugar coat the truth. But you are never brutal with it too.

I love that you want your daughters to be strong, independent women. I love that you wish we would have the courage to backpack around the world, but that your'e equally protective of us. I like that you bought me a scooter so that I would not have to always rope in a guy to ferry me about. I'm sorry that I chickened out and the scooter is lying idle in the garage. Most of all, I love that you don't think that that makes me a pansy (at least you don't say it out loud) :P

I loooovee that you listen to Pink Floyd, Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin (My mom ROCKS)!!! I love that you listen to the songs on my playlist like A7X, Silverchair, Coldplay and Matchbox 20. I love that you always give us a couple of beers on special occasions so that we won't have to go sneak off drinks from some dubious source.

I love that you never turn away a hand in need, but you never give free hand outs either. When less fortunate people come begging to you, you always make them do little chores around the house, and then you pay them extravagantly. You take them to hospitals if they or any one in their family needs medical help. But what I love the most is that you refuse to treat anyone as a beggar; rather you make them feel like worthy human beings who have the capability to EARN their bread for them selves.

I love that you never badgered dad to bring in more money when you had to struggle to pay for the education and boarding fees of five girls. You sold off your jewellery without a qualm. I swear that we will repay you for all those and more.

I love your courage. When dad went away on a business trip, and a burglar entered our house one night, you chased him off with a frying pan, and stayed awake all night in case he would come back. And you did all this quietly so that we won't wake up and be frightened. You teach us that God watches over us all, but that we also have to watch out for ourselves so that we may not make His work harder.

Most of all, momma, I respect the fact that you are so hard working. You refuse to sit idle. You do what is considered a man's job. Carpentry, cementing, layering, plumbing, field work- you do all that, apart from the traditional women's work. And the most amazing transformation takes place when you change out of your dirty work clothes and you turn yourself into a big-shot officer's pampered-looking wife. Your hands are rough and calloused, but they are the most beautiful hands to me.

I love you, Mother-i. Your'e a phenomenal woman and I am proud to be yours.

Bawl!!

Promised myself am not gonna blog for a while because I am seriously over-blogging. But I came across this beautiful post some mad momma had written.

Now I sit here in front of my computer crying my eyes out. And I'm still crying.

Quote of the day: It takes more than half a teaspoon of sperm to make a father.

My Perfect Prom Night

It was 2005. We had been together for about 8 Months. Prom Night was coming up and dad absolutely refused to let me go. So i would gloomily follow my friends around as they tried on new clothes after clothes, listened sulkily when they discussed where they would meet up.

And then the night before, dad suddenly unbent. I could attend prom, but I had to come back at 8. This was such a huge concession for him. Of course, I had no new clothes to wear, but what the heck, I was going out at night!!

There was some function during the day. I skipped that and we met up at a friend's place. Listened to music, laughed at corny jokes, chatted up a storm. We were pretty broke, both being students then, but we managed to cough up enough to eat out at a fancy place. We laughed as we scanned the menu for something that wouldn't strain our budget too much.

Prom was supposed to start at 6.30 pm. We went there around 7, but nothing had been set up. I started to feel pretty tense as there was no way I would violate dad's curfew. I really wanted to attend this prom because it was my final year in college, and also because it was an open air activity with live music- my ultimate dream date.

They finally finished setting up everything by 7. 30-ish. But it was now time for me to leave. I wanted to cry. The music had started up. There were my friends, looking so good in their new clothes and without any worries about curfews. It had started to drizzle too, and i felt like a limp rag.

He knew i was sad, knew how much I wanted to be there. And he started telling me corny jokes to cheer me up. He also suggested we walk home via our special route. So we walked slowly home. It had started to rain heavily, and much as I love the rain, that night it seemed as if even Mother Nature was against me.

Then we reached the hill where we always sat. From there I could hear the sounds of music coming from our college. I wanted to cry. I felt as if my youth was gone. I hated my dad and his over protective attitude. Yes, I was a drama queen. But this was a manifestation of my dream date. An open air concert with someone special by my side, and us dancing in the rain. And here I was, having to walk away from all that.

I thought we would just go straight home. But he stopped me, and looked carefully at my face. Then he gave me that warm hug, and softly crooned a song for me. He is a man of few words. And for someone like me weaned on poetry and ballads, this often caused problems between us. But that night he proved that gestures are more effective than words.

I have always tried to portray myself as a happy-go-lucky, don't-need-no- man, commitment phobic lass. But that night my defenses were swept away.

There we were, a young boy and girl, holding each other in the rain, listening to music that was meant only for us. And he pretended not to notice as I pretended not to cry. And that night I truly fell in love for the first time.

Sometimes, we have this idea in our heads of what perfection looks like. But life plays its mischievous tricks on us and shows us that perfection exists when we find ourselves at the end of our tethers, and someone extends a hand to us and sings us a song.

Good mornings :D

Found a great way to start my mornings :)

More here.

I miss my best friend

That first taste of freedom in college where we would arrive by 9:30, and leave at 4, regardless of whether we have a class or not. Just sitting on the pavement because we didn’t want to go home. The phone calls to each other when we get back home. Saturdays when I would trek up to her house, and Sundays when she would come to mine. Lying to our parents so that we can take a trip to Shillong. Lying for each other, period.

That silent walk back home when we both had new boyfriends at the same time. The goofy grins on both our faces. The way she tried to make me cry when I broke up with mine because she insisted that one should always cry at break-ups. Me helplessly watching her silent tears when she had her first heart break. Laughing at her ex-boyfriend’s love letter to her. Walking from Sikulpuikawn to Zarkawt at 6 in the evening, just so she can catch a glimpse of her crush. Keeping the first of many secrets that would bind us together irrevocably.

Laughing at her when a bus conductor kicked her ass from a moving bus. She laughing at me when I fell face down in front of a crowd of eve-teasing taxi drivers. It was not that we were unsympathetic towards each other. The thing was, between us, we managed to turn the tragic and the embarrassing into something to laugh about.

She had these attacks where she would be short of breath, and sometimes she would pass out. There were so many times she would pass out on the streets and I had to leave her there to search for help. The one time I choked on Kuhva and couldn’t breathe, and there were no houses nearby, she didn’t know what to do, so she crawled on the street with me. That time when she had an attack in the examination hall, and the teachers gave her lemon tea, and knowing my penchant for them, she let me drink it all up.. Ahh, friendship.

When I finally had my first heart break, I went to her place. We bought what we thought was grape wine, but it turned out to be this vile black concoction that blackened our teeth and gave us diarrhea. I went there to cry but had never laughed so much in my life. The greatest anomaly about her is that she hates music! So she probably wouldn’t see that it’s such an honour for her that I’m even thinking of her while OD-ing on John Mayer.

That time she tried to teach me how to drive the scooty and the way we both screamed when the scooty insisted on trying to run off the road. I gave up on it, and became her official back-seat driver. Driving on the University roads singing at the top of our voices. Driving through heavy rains because we thought wet hair was sexy… Nah, we just loved driving in the rain. Violating traffic rules together and turning on the charm when we were reprimanded.

Copying off each other’s papers during tests. Frantic signals when one of us got stuck on a class presentation. Our friendly academic competitions, where we both came out winners. Her guide sent her to this God-forsaken place where there is no internet and phone calls are dodgy. So I won’t be able to see her for about two months. I miss her. But I won’t tell her that because she would gloat. We’re very unsentimental towards each other. A pat on the back for us signifies a thousand affectionate words. Not that I need to tell her that I miss her anyway, because she already knows that I do.....