humpty dumpty

Almost all my pets fall off buildings at some point in their lives.

It's like an unspoken agreement between them.
An implicit act of... solidarity? rebellion?
Who knows.
But they all fall down.

What makes this that much more ridiculous is that the majority of these tumblers are cats!
In the spirit of that morbid curiosity, which is touted to be the nemesis of the feline, they venture where they shouldn't, perch on precarious walls, and then proceed to roll off them.

Combined with the other unfortunate fact that I have mostly lived in upper floor apartments, this makes for small episodes of pure horror.

Notice cat is missing, search frantically for cat, fail to find cat, realise cat has fallen off building, find cat (often injured or bloody) at bottom of apartment/lower floor, proceed to nurse cat back to health so that you can slap it silly later on.

There was the one that landed on its feet, injured one of them, then crawled under a car to hide, making it that much more difficult for us to find him.

There was the one that fell five floors and smashed up his face so badly that I screamed when I saw him (he recovered, thank God!)

There was the one that fell off the balcony and rolled into the downstairs apartment, kept us up all night searching, then made us stage a daring rescue mission that involved walking across planks.

There was the one that fell four floors and broke his paw, which had to then be put in a cast for a month.

And then there was the genius who fell one floor down to the garden, hurt his leg and broke a tooth. :/

*sigh*

And they say cats are graceful.

lipstick

I have this weird, almost superstitious notion that wearing lipstick is a subtle but undeniable sign of being an adult woman.

I mean, wearing it in earnest. Not just slathering it on for super dressy occasions or costume parties.
I mean wearing it on a regular basis, to work, to parties and events, maybe even to movies and grocery shopping.

Choosing shades according to complexion, time of day, outfit and occasion.
Making that perfect 'O' with your mouth, then smacking your lips to even it out. Not using your fingers to clumsily wipe away smudges and spills. Doing it with a practiced hand. Like a pro.

I have done quite a bit of growing up these past few years.
Relationship, job, household...

But lipstick, man!
That bitch still eludes me.

scribe

After all these years of chronicling life in words, of mad scribbling, of writing myself back to sanity and serenity, after all this time composing worlds and wonders, fables and fantasies with the strokes of my pen, it is hard not to feel patronized when someone tells me to ‘just write’.

What do you know of writing?

What do you know about the power of words?

Nobody is privy to what has transpired between me and the pages of my journal, several hundred notebooks, sheets and scraps of paper, and even table napkins, old bills and bits of newspaper, when inspiration struck at odd times and places.

I have made love with words, spewed hate with them. I have grappled with grief, loss and my sense of self in odd, unfinished sentences, and then made my peace with life in lush stanzas and lines.

Writing is healing. Writing is pure magic.

It comes to me in sudden, unruly bursts.

I’m grateful for each one. I’m blessed.

Baoli

The fading light of the late afternoon sun slanted over the tops of the trees.

Like a deep green ocean beneath our feet.

Stretching to the limits of our line of vision.

Old minarets and ruined tombs rose from it. A lost city.

Majestic and mysterious.

There was poetry in the way the capital continued to buzz and bustle all around.

While this ancient island of stillness and silence sat unmoved in the midst of it.

Always at an arm’s reach, but out of sight.

So well hidden, that we almost missed it.

And on that terrace, the city of Delhi sprawling below us, growing farther away with each passing second, you held me.

On winter evenings, alone on a deserted terrace somewhere, you and I are enough.

Stone cold sobriety feels like the most intense trip of my life.

work wear

It’s funny and interesting to see how people (consciously or unconsciously) dress for their jobs.

My current flatmates all dress incredibly appropriately for their respective profiles.
Or at least stereotypes associated with them.

The better half dons a suit and crisp formal shirts to fit in with his swanky office and overdressed colleagues

The legislative assistant friend wears kurtas and Nehru jackets (and a beard!) to make an impression at the parliament.

The trade publishing editor bestie mixes and matches quirky prints and geek-chic glasses with hair-bands, danglers and ballet flats.

And me?

Well, I have a bloody dress code! :\

distance makes the heart grow colder

a year ago in winter

something changed.

abruptly. irreversibly.

what had become a lonely sort of custom,
quickly turned into a shared joy.

before I knew it, I was intertwined.

and I suddenly had an answer.

yes, sometimes in life there is a dramatic build-up
to a “grand finale of realistion.”

catharsis.

It’s been a year, and for the first time in five years or so,
I am missing my beloved Kolkata Film Festival.

but I’m there in spirit, I guess.

because you are too.

*in case you were wondering, the title of this post is borrowed from a movie I watched at the 15^th kolkata film festival, which blew me away.