Coming to terms

It's been a long time.

It's been a long time for various reasons.

Today I have decided to complete this post after having contemplated on finishing it two months ago.

Today I have decided to forget that I'm a student pursuing a gruelling post-graduate course that usually eats up my Sundays.

Today I am not free.

I wrote my previous post sometime in December. I  know that unlike the past two years, I did not bother to come up with my usual year-end ramble about how much 2014 meant to me, my experiences that year, etcetera,  etcetera .

The reason for this exception isn't anything very special -  I'm still trying to hold onto the past year and the much-deserved warmth it infused in me. I refuse to accept that 2015 is another new start as every year has always been, or rather, has claimed to be.

The one thing I miss the most is the summer of 2014, especially our whirlwind trip to Paris and Switzerland. Out of the two destinations, Switzerland felt more like home to me; a second home that I had previously been unaware of, a home that had existed all this while, quietly, amidst snow-capped peaks and lush green meadows. This time we decided to deviate from the usual hotel accommodation, and chose to spend three days in a chalet owned by an old Swiss couple. Why did I fall in love with a locale and setting as humble as this? There are answers to this question, of course. I could owe it to the balcony overlooking the Alps, or to the contentment of letting words run in my diary whilst the mountains gave me company, to the wisps of smoke arising  from my coffee one particularly cold morning, to the wooden flooring, to the joy of wearing winter clothes and boots after a winterless year, to the winding streets of Grindelwald that led to an old station which could transport you back in time, to the snowman we built, to being overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the rugged yet kind nature that greeted us everyday, to being a part of the quaint surroundings - oh the list is indeed endless.

Every minute spent in the country that wasn't my own, counted, and more so because I knew what awaited me back home. I wanted to push away my anxiety and worry regarding academia, temporarily.

Though the holiday blues took a long time to fade, the year turned out to be a great one. What I have been left with ever since, is a dull craving to somehow experience it all once again, though dejavu will never be the same.

I have been asked to, or rather, been telling myself to stop myself from clamming my head with too many questions and expectations. I find myself wondering if I would have indeed done better, had I left this city to pursue my academics elsewhere. Would I be still loathing myself for being so dependant on my parents for everything? Would I still be that person to whom everything comes easily? A good university within the city, a fabulous vacation, good grades, a steady relationship with a good boy,  good food, and good friends. I'm probably jinxing everything good in my life by flaunting it on social media but the fact is everything good doesn't guarantee one hundred percent satisfaction.

I have gone on severals rants bout my dissatisfaction, and I have noticed that it's one of those things that lasts temporarily, fades away, only to sneak into your routine sometime later. And folks like me express it through words whilst there are some who find other mediums of venting it out. Also, I can't help but notice how stoic I sound.

As much as I would like to deny the fact that it was change that made the whole international experience so memorable and that it's the lack of change I have been sensing all this while, I have to come to terms with it. On one hand, it scares the s*** out of me on the other hand I guess it's the only thing that can guarantee some peace. My close friend told me that living on my own is a lot harder than I think. It will be really hard but I guess that's what I need. Change comes with a price.

It's turning out to be a long post, but who cares, I'm amazed at my train of thoughts. 2014 was a great year, because at some point it seemed like a year different than the rest.

It's time I acknowledge this year and appreciate it for its worth.

I have two examinations due this week and I'm not free. Coming to terms with that isn't so hard. 

New-food love

Disclaimer : I do not apologise for the usage of tongue twisting Tamil vocabulary in the following post. Pronouncing "zha" may be seem a bit daunting, but I promise you will get there. Yes, you shall. My dear non-south indian buddies/foodies, I hope this post enriches your knowledge pertaining to Tamil cuisine.

I am not sure if everyone will relate to this but of late, my taste buds have re-discovered comfort in food I used to detest as a kid and a teenager.

As a kid, I was not too compliant with food. I was a notch higher than a picky-eater and there were instances when my Thatha would threaten to shove food down my throat if I continued to make a fuss. This spelt hullabaloo, followed by tears and my Paati valiantly trying to defend me from her intimidating husband. "Aapudi bezhamuduthandengo! Paavum kozhandai." -  "Don't scare her! Poor child." And of course most of my relatives correlate this to my weight, even now. "Sappudata epuudi weight poduva!" - "How will she put on weight if she doesn't eat!".

As I grew up, this practice began to fade gradually. I learnt to appreciate the characteristic tanginess of rasam and sambaar.  As a six-year old, there were times when I would slurp rasam sadam (rice) from a mini-plate with gusto, just to see a smile of intense satisfaction spread across my grandpa's face. Honestly, I loved exaggerating the slurps at times. Not only was his grin satiating, but also the whole slurping experience was fun. The adulation I received  for merely finishing a meal was undoubtedly encouraging. "Kuuthu! Innu Kuuthhu! Mmmmmmm!"  which translates to "Pour some more! More!" Soon, I could proudly tell everyone that potatoes were my among my favourite vegetables. Garam masala and onion-garlic paste were mandatory in most of the sabzis. I developed a taste for omelettes and scrambled eggs. Restaurants began to hold meaning for their gastronomic appeal rather than for their air-conditioned ambience. Though meat was taboo in our household, Thatha unscrupulously introduced me to the world of seafood and tandoori chicken (and I haven't looked back ever since). Moreover, watching my baby sister happily guzzle mango pulp made me all the more curious about this fruit that had initially seemed revolting. By the time I was nine, Mum had introduced me to paani-puri and chaat, albeit with extra meetha chutney. All said and done, food definitely began to seem more appealing.

However, apart from the enthusiastic slurping of rasam, the Tamilian in me hadn't been stirred completely.

In our meals, rice, rasam, sambaar, kootu (vegetable stew), curd, urrugai (pickle), uppuma and yes, idi and dosai have always been regulars. Moreover, greens were, have and will always be omnipresent in every South-Indian preparation. Keerai (spinach), Pushanikai (Ash gourd), all types of beans, dudhi (bottle gourd), vendekai (ladyfinger),vazhakai (raw bananas), you name it, and it's bound to be there in our cuisine. I had never been too fond of kootu and greens prepared in this style always eluded me. To put it in simple terms, kootu is a dish with minimal spice, predominated by a single vegetable. The taste of kootu is such that if you were to be subjected to it frequently, garam masala cravings would take over your taste buds. I could hardly understand the relish with which my mother ate keerai kootu, and I'm pretty sure her sensitivity towards my disdain was mutual. 

In addition to this, I used to consider rawa uppuma to be the most lacklustre breakfast dish ever (to know that it was THE winning dish in the Masterchef UK finals was disappointing). Idlis weren't exciting, and after a point I lost interest in the good old dosai as well. Pongal was reserved for blocked noses and dormant taste buds. I didn't understand the point of eating food from a banana leaf, whilst managing those rivulets of rasam and sambar that formed along the veins of the leaf. Whatever happened to the good old steel plates?! Plus, eating a combination of cucumber raita mixed with rasam with traces of paysam (kheer) had never been a palatable experience. Consequently, I never looked forward to Tamil weddings. My elitist food habits probably earned me the reputation of being the posh Tamilian in my family. Much to my friends' shock, I felt South-Indian dishes were far from exotic. I was subject to questions such as "Dude how can you get bored of Dhosas?"  *cringe* I had even gone to the extent of eating chana-masala from a fast-food joint  in Chennai.

All this lasted till I was nineteen. This I say, owing to a change in my food habits afterwards. The change wasn't overnight, definitely. It was gradual, and the earliest I realised this was when I ended up eating lunch at five in the evening. Little did I know that lemon rasam could actually quieten my stomach's guttural tones. I couldn't believe that I had actually enjoyed a  humble home-made meal without onions and truckloads of masala. But then again, hunger is blind. I presumed this to be an once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence, only to be proved wrong again a week later, when a whiff of bhindi-do-pyaaza (one of my favourites) put me off instead of having me salivate. I was feeling ravenous after a day's worth of hard work, but the only thing I could visualize was a crispy cheese dosa, sitting regally on a steel plate, surrounded by a bowl of sambar traced with jaggery, and coconut chutney so smooth that even the world's best bhindi-do-pyaaza wouldn't do justice to it. I was probably being unfair to bhindi, but at the point I couldn't care much about it.

There were, of course, many such episodes of sambar/dosa/vada cravings that followed, some of them being fueled by chance encounters with South-Indian cooking shows on the TV.  I partly owe it to them chefs for their minimalist choice of words to describe the process, in their Tamil-tinged accents. "Ippo namba molgai podi podlaam, slight-a, summa konjum colour kahai" - "Now we shall add some chilli powder, slightly, just to obtain some colour."

However, I achieved a milestone when I helped myself with 3 servings of beans kootu  and avial at my aunt's place. The impeccable taste and texture of these dishes will be forever etched in my taste-buds. So technically speaking, I owe it to my aunt's magical cooking for helping me discover the delights of our cuisine. Soon after, I began to look forward to Sunday meals, much to my mother's relief. I learnt the art of eating out of a banana leaf, much to everyone's amazement. Curd rice and pickle were reliable on lazy evenings and on bloated stomach days. In a nutshell, the graph of my food tastes began to show a significant rise with time.

I guess I have changed as a person over the past few years..and this is by no means a prelude to a long rant. What I want to say is that, my food tastes have evolved as well, simultaneously.  I do not, by any means, consider myself to be an ardent lover of my regional cuisine. But I need it after a weekend of experimenting with oriental stuff, or on days when the pungent odour of bhuna masala ambushes my nose. Yes, THAT.

A quote from a favourite short-story comes to my mind - "The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, succulent, and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Jehovah were tickled by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites" (The Luncheon by Somerset Maughum). Five years ago, the idea of asparagus had seemed totally revolting but now the aforementioned analogy serves as the ideal salivary stimulant. Mmm. Quick, serve me some asparagus.

Of opinions and Bollywood.

Here's the thing. It has probably been ingrained in every upper -middle-class Indian's head that Bollywood is the epitome of mainstream, and that it's meant to be detested. The invariable conversation starter, and the final resort to save a lifeless not to mention an awkward confabulation - Bollywood. And I'm referring to the new age plethora of forgettable Hindi films.

"Oh she just can't act!"

"Can't stand him. Kaise ban gaya actor?"

"I think that film was a total rip-off."

"The movie had some potential but the story fell flat. Pch."

Though these are a few snatches from a typical house party banter , I think the most pathetic one till date is the last one. It saddens me to hear to constantly hear the word potential tagged to Bollywood movies. On one hand, a banal plot line (or the lack of one, usually) can hardly qualify as potential. On the other, there are those films that just seem to have it all - a good plot, a good cast, good dialogues - technically speaking the film is right there, waiting eagerly to be appreciated, but that annoying yet extremely significant X factor seems to be amiss. That's when 'it is' turns into an 'it-could-have-been'. It is tragic, considering all that potential slowly fades into oblivion, only to be known as crap.

You seldom find a  Bollywood film, that makes you want to sit and ponder long after the film is over. Or one which makes you sigh in the end with the thought that three worthwhile hours of reel have finally come to an end and that it's time to greet the real and cacophony instead of background music. Even if one does come long, it usually gets lost in a sea of mind numbing mediocrity that includes many  Munnis, Sheilas, Dabaangs, Gundaays and the like.

Ah well, I'm done with my preamble. I finally managed to watch a movie that sort of defies the above said things. "Highway" was a breath of fresh air, with the perfect blend of simple yet excellent cinematography, a minimal yet great cast, soulful music and above all moments that were poignant enough to replay constantly in my head long after the film was over. I'm not here, however, to delve into details and provide an in-depth movie review. I think there are way too many of those on the internet. But of course, if you were to sit and analyse the script, there would be flaws, as it seems from the lack of a staunch plot. However, the film itself is along the lines of an introspective journey, which isn't about reaching the final destination. I suppose the whole point was to just enjoy various delightful aspects of the film, rather than being a Freytag stickler for a good story-line.

My sister and I barely spoke on the way back home. It took a while for me to come back to the ennui of a hot February afternoon. Right then, I got a call from a friend, and I'm still figuring as to what exactly got me all choked up on the phone instead of sticking to my customary "What's up?". I guess it was a classic case of post-movie feel. In that case, hats off to Imitiaz Ali, the director of the film.

I'm glad that there are such Bollywood films to look forward to, bordering along parallel cinema. There is going to be an eternal bunch of ravenous critics of course, waiting eagerly to pounce on every blip and glitch in a film, and probably write it off entirely with the paradigmatic use of "the plot falls flat" phrase. Well, each to his own.

If you happen to be one of them, do take this one lightly. "Highway" has made use of all that potential, collecting dust under the red carpet.

Cheers.








 

She will be loved.

A quote from "Dhobi Ghaat",

"To my muse, to my whore, to my beloved."

Bombay.

 

I distanced myself from the city when I was well into my fifth year in Pune.

Pune is smaller. It's easier to commute within the city. Pleasant weather. Great locality. A neat friend network. School. High School. College. Everything has been sorted out. Everything continues to unfold in a perfect sequence.

Rewind to the bit when we moved to Pune.  You could call it The Milestone, because before that my life had been hunky dory, pretty much (Well, what would you expect from a scrawny, nine-year old kid?). I hated Pune with a vengeance. It was all about Bombay. And how I would miss my house. My grandparents. My friends. What about the stack of memories that had built up over the years?

Say hello to irony.

Anyway, I'm not here to ramble about how I learnt to adjust to my new surroundings. It's just about this sudden, random realisation that hit me today, on my way to IITB.

I know it's stupid of me to judge this city (this maddening city with local trains running all over it, carrying people who jostle, shove and stumble upon each other and hang onto a dear life, whilst waiting impatiently to reach their  respective destinations,) based on meeting a bunch of enterprising folks at the campus of IITB, but, it just felt as though Bombay was welcoming me, and was eager to usher me in.

I have had a terrific weekend. Met a friend, with whom I got recently acquainted, and jeez, it seemed as though we had known each other for a lifetime. Made new friends at the campus. Watched one of my favourite punk bands perform live on stage. Managed to watch Life of Pi (exactly a month after its release!), finally. Visited my childhood home, and felt a rush of nostalgia. Spent a good time with my family, and relatives alike, after what seems like ages. And right now, I'm hastily typing everything down, lest it all slips away.

There were no delays. No frustrating last minute cancellations. No evil conspiracy to stop me from having a good time. It's almost like Bombay made sure that everything went according to plan.

I don't visit this city as often as I used to. There was a time when we would drive down every weekend to meet our folks at home. But, that faded away as we gradually settled in.

Bombay must I have sensed I don't miss her anymore. This time she vouched to give me a splendid time with all my close ones. She wanted me to realise that she is an integral part of my life.

I don't know her as well as I know Pune. After all, I was quite young when we moved out. I am clueless when it comes to navigating within this city. The roads, the traffic, the trains, the buses, the concrete jungle, the crowd, the hustle and the bustle, the sights, the smells, the sounds, and the weather can not only stagger a new comer, but also an ex-Bombayite, who hardly visits her home city that changes slightly with each visit.

But, somewhere down the line, familiarity lingers.

There's this one small thing that was a highlight of my stay as well, and though it might seem very inconsequential to the reader, I'm going to put that down.

The ten minute rickshaw ride to IITB from my cousin's place.

It was hardly anything. Over the flyover and along Powai lake. And tada! There comes IITB on my left. However, it was my first ever rickshaw ride in Bombay without a guide. As a child, I always had an uncle or a grandparent to tag along with me everywhere. Today, I got my ten minutes of free rein, which was indeed very special.

To feel the same breeze that blows daily, all year round, as a child is different from sensing it as a teenager on the brink of adulthood. Earlier, I had been carefree, and hadn't a damned clue about commuting, the pains of high school, managing boyfriends, or the sweet liberty of using debit cards and consuming alcohol, tolerating emotional hassles, and all those complicated aspects of growing up. To me, Bombay has always meant walks with my grandfather, ice-creams, stationery shops, crayons, story-books, lollipops, slides, swings and see-saws, Esselworld, elementary school, beaches, etc. Bombay's streets have always been unknown to me, but, this time it was almost as if she was assuring me that learning her ways wouldn't be exacting.

I think I will eventually spend a good part of my ripe years in this city. Bombay will call me soon, I know.

I just want her to know that she will always be loved no matter what. We share a great rapport, you see.

Nh7 time. Hello, Weekender!

India's happiest music festival is back!

Last year, it had been pretty spectacular. Unfortunately, I  managed to attend only a day out of this awesome three-day wingding, thanks to my semester-end examinations.

This time, it's different. And I'm extremely grateful to my University for chalking out a peachy schedule, that ended a week prior to the Weekender.

It begins today, and boy, can I wait?!

Eighty artistes, spanning three days can be quite overwhelming. But, that's the whole point. It's a treat to the ears and the eyes.

Energy overload. A lot of jumping and romping. Headbanging. Moshing. Pigging out on food. Screaming oneself hoarse. Photographs. A keen look-out for one's favourite artiste. Backstage sneak-peek? Yeah, probably.

OMG. I haven't been this excited in a very long time.

2009

It's amazing how I remember every detail of the year 2009. The three years that have followed it are blurry and hazy with conspicuous empty patches, representing incidents I cannot recall, no matter how hard I rack my brains.

That year brought about great changes in me. Call it a change in my personality and even physical appearance, but I felt confident, sunny and pretty.

I saw my school in a new light. Junior College seemed to be friendlier and warmer as compared to high school.

My first trip to the States.

My Facebook friend's list increased in leaps and bounds.

I realised that dressing up and partying was actually fun. Yes, I started smearing eyeliner under my eyes. Smokey.

That year, I broke more than three pairs of glasses.

I realised I had indeed fallen in love with my city and Clover Heights, especially.

This beautiful Squier came into my possession.

I realized that liking a guy comes with its share of thrill, estrogen and depression.

Tasted heartbreak for the first time.

Noticed changes in old friends.

Saw Death for the first time.

2009 was three years ago. I really miss it. With each passing year, it will go further behind. Milestone year. Definitely.

Going solo

Confidence is a sexy feeling

I sang Adele's "Set Fire to the Rain" for our intercollegiate fest. Today.

I have gone solo in the past, but I somehow end up compromising on that 100% effort I usually put in during the practices and rehearsals. It unfortunately diminishes to a mere 50%, leaving me feeling quite dejected by the end of it.

Today was different. I feel sort of...erm..proud..of my performance. Credit goes to my friend, who provided an excellent keyboard accompaniment. I didn't want to bungle up and douse all the enthusiasm that had been an integral part of our practice sessions.

Okay, I'm making it sound like it was something very crucial, almost a life-or-death situation. It was actually just a solo singing competition for a usual college fest, that I assumed I might eventually forget.

But, looking at it now, I guess I will cherish this day. My voice didn't waver. I didn't quiver. I hit the high notes. The words flowed smoothly. I worked at the expression. I know I did it. I feel happy with myself, something that is very rare.

I think I gave my 100%. I don't care about the competition. I think the stage is lovely. The euphoria after a good performance lies at a higher level than triumph, though I did feel triumphant for having gotten over my fear.

I think I just tasted confidence.

The Airport

Airports feature in my list of top ten favourite spots.

I just love airports - the atmosphere they enclose, the lingering smell of air fresheners (airport smell!), flat screen T.Vs plugged in here and there, coffee machines, the lounges, book-stores, souvenir shops, sofa-chairs that one could sink into, periodic announcements, flights taking off and landing, and mostly, the multifarious populace pouring in and out, and the emotions writ on their faces.

Airports have always held good memories for me. An airport has undoubtedly been a part of every fabulous trip I have had so far. Come to face it, a tour to the States, Singapore, or Thailand, or any other exotic destination begins by entering an airport. A blast of cool conditioned air welcomes you, as the automatic doors slide out to usher you in.

Tickets? Check.
Passports? Check.
All the luggage? Check.
Toothbrushes?! Check.

We are geared and all set to go.

Airplanes form the climax. The destination is the ending. The planning and organizing bit of the trip is the plot, according to me. I love to recollect the whole process while I sit in an airport, eagerly awaiting our flight announcement. I haunt the bookstores. Occasional cappuccinos rejuvenate me. Earphones are seated comfortably in my ears. My fingers fiddle with my iPod buttons.

 'Course, this is what I experience once the holiday is about to begin.

In contrast, the feeling while coming back is mixed with a bit of sadness and longing. Holiday blues, they say. The airport is the sole, physical remainder of the wonderful trip, and I usually love to savour those final moments.

Once, our return flight to Pune from Goa got postponed to the next day owing to bad weather. I rejoiced, while my parents stood glaring at me.

It isn't vacation time for everyone. Often, one gets to see upset faces; heartbroken, angry, impatient, and sometimes ridden with worry.

Indian airports are known for their cacophonies.

Large Gujarati families comprising trendily dressed housewives, who are thrilled at prospect of breaking away from their households, jovial husbands, and extra boisterous kids, are usually spotted at the international terminals. Newly weds occupy the cozy corners. The wife has an array of bright red bangles, covering almost half her arms. Intricate henna designs on her hands. The gold adorning her seems strangely mismatched with her casual denims.

Punjabi and Tamilian dads can be heard talking on their phones, even if they are miles away; booming voices that attract truckloads of attention, whilst their kids shirk away in sheer embarrassment (been there, done that).

And the infants! Fragile looking creatures that fool you when they bawl their lungs out. Stuffing milk bottles into their mouths may relieve their harrowed mothers (whom I really pity, no kidding!).

The corporate guy looks bored out of his skull. Another one is seen conversing heatedly with a voice on the other end of  his smartphone.

You have the NRIs, who are usually bewildered by the bedlam around them. You could probably hear the sounds of those wonderful images built in their heads about India, shatter instantly.

And then amidst the horde of brown faces, you might spot a few white ones, looking slightly disoriented, as they try to locate the baggage counter. The smug expression on the Indian bystander's face clearly says, "Don't expect signs to direct you."

The scenario outside the airport? Chaos and clamour in simple words. You can see ones' family, escorts and drivers, falling over each other, holding name placards, as they valiantly crane their necks to look out for whomever they're waiting for.

Indians usually forget that boarding a plane is quite different from boarding a train. Local trains narrate a different story altogether, and I really, really don't feel like delving into that. Anyway, the thing is, there is absolutely no need to rush or shovel while climbing onto a plane, but, old habits don't die fast, so...you can predict what's going to happen next.

That's more or less how it is done out here.

Yet, airports are good. I associate them with all things good.

Most movies end at an airport. There comes the romantic aspect. I mean, a guy deserting his flight for you just 'cause he has realized the inevitable, would be the best possible thing ever.

Well, all I'm trying to say is that most people tend to forget how important an airport is. It can bring about reunions. Or sometimes, separation.

A place that provides you with small luxuries.

Or it can just be the start to a great memory. Every airport has memories attached to it.

It's that time of the year

WHICH SUCKS.

Brilliant ideas flit in and out of my head. Some random tunes. I keep improvising while I stare at this term in notebook which gradually loses all its meaning.

A meaningless wonder; this tune takes shape in my head. What does it remind me of? A rainy day. A downpour which calms down to a drizzle. Raindrops are trickling down the window pane, while I stare fixedly at this one drop, moving painstakingly, while the rest have already raced ahead of it. Impatience. I will it to move faster. COME ON! But no,.the drop follows the cliched slow-and-steady-wins-the-race ideology. All right, I say. I give up. Suit yourself, you pesky little rain drop.

It all fits. The tune. The day. The rain. The dark clouds.

But I notice that the other raindrops that rushed off in a hurry, seem to have disappeared, leaving long, fine trails of water, that end abruptly. Our pesky man is the only one, treading slowly, millimeter by millimeter, enjoying every step.

Some realisation.

Was it a race to win? Was there a reward at the end of it? Those raindrops didn't win a race. They simply hotfooted and vanished at the end of it. No triumph. My favourite raindrop, still trudges slow, breathing in the cool monsoon air and smelling the earth. I get a feeling that it sees me, through it's invisible eyes and smiles at me. Hakuna Matata.

I seem to be stuck at this point. I don't want this drop to disappear.

But it's going to. I can't stop it.

I seem to be stuck at this point. Should it end with the end of the drop's journey?

There seems to be some confusion. The word I was staring at comes back into focus.

'Drops'.

"Add a few drops of water to the compound.." . Observe the colour change, blah, blah.

Exams.

You suck.

And something to look forward to!

So A-Z Blogging Challenge 2012 is here, and I'm extremely grateful to one of my fellow bloggers for having introduced me to this brainwave.

Thank you Skaypisms - Sangita Aunty!

 The rules are simple. Your blog post for the day should begin with a topic beginning with the alphabet for the day; the letter "A" being assigned to April 1st, "B"  to the next and so on till "Z" assigned to the 30th of April. Sundays are off for good behavior (apparently :P)

 For further details, check the A-Z Challenge badge on Akoustik--->Homepage

My intention isn't to win actually. It's just to engage my mind into doing something productive and different.

I was going to opt  for freestyle but I changed my mind later and decided to stick to a theme.

My theme for the challenge is Sounds of the Soul. :)

So bye bye dissatisfaction, it's time for some brainstorming and to let the words flow smoothly and freely!

Daydreams of an Ex-Girlfriend

A fantastic poem written by my ex-classmate. I love you for this one! :)

So I hear you’re up to your tricks again,

Got a new heart in exchange for mine,

And relief, envy, pride, anger and sorrow,

All stalk me as I stalk you online.

For they told me about your reputation,

Of having for girls an unquenchable thirst,

And I knew I was going to be dumped soon,

So being a smart girl, I dumped you first.

Ha! I remember the look on your face,

I revel in those stunned hazel eyes,

I like to think I pricked your ego, just a little,

By that gaping look of bemused surprise.

But, you know, Mr. Casanova, as I smartly,

Turned my back on you with a toss of my head,

And all along the road as I was walking,

I was hoping you’d call me back instead.

You probably just gave a bemused shrug,

And as soon as I went out of your sight,

You walked into a pub and got hold of,

A new girl with whom to spend the night.

Still, I’ll admit it’s rather a consolation,

Though it’s cold and majorly thin,

For when people ask, “why did he dump you?’’

It’s nice to say, “I dumped him.”

The girls all had told me stories,

About the girls you had gone on to date,

The same might have happened to me, almost,

 I got out before it was too late.

Oh, times with you were lovely, I’ll admit,

I was rather proud at having caught your eye,

And those envious glances of the ladies,

I can’t forget, even though I try.

I thought what every girl had thought,

Thought I’d get you to change your ways,

Foolish enough to think I was different,

I would end the Casanova Days.

I wonder who’ll be the one to hold you,

I wonder if you’ll come back to me,

I wonder a lot of things, Mr. Casanova,

For I was almost in love, you see.

- Ashavari Bhattacharya

The Kolaveri. ;)

Okay in spite of being a South Indian, a Tamilian, to be specific, I detest Kollywood and its creative songs; the typical 'dabangkootu' (hardcore) numbers, with the stereotyped mrindangam and dholak beats, not to mention the heavy use of nadaswaram. I am generalizing of course, but there are the likes of Rahman and Illayaraja too, who compose great tunes.

So here's to twenty-one year old debutant music composer, Anirudh Ravichander, whose song 'Why this Kolaveri' has grabbed my attention and also a cosy spot in my head, so that it can replay over and over again. Silly but funny lyrics, a catchy combination of acoustic guitar, piano, mrindangam and nadaswaram, sung by South Indian sensation, Dhanush (whom I really don't care about), it has definitely become a YouTube virus, receiving  over a million 'likes' within five days.

Kolaveri? A rage to kill. I have felt the kolaveri too.

xD