Thursday, April 24, 2014


As soon as I bite into it, all I can think of is the powerful essence of LIFE that just oozes its weight over my tastebuds, and into my system. I automatically think, yes, this most definitely is my favourite fruit.

But then again, I get that reaction with quite a few other fruits.

But the grapefruit will and continue to be right there at the top of the list. Until you experience the mastery and magic of a grapefruit, you will not know what it is that I speak of -- the juiciness, the tang, the sweetness, the energy...

And some people just don't get it. I tell you. Some people just think it's a yucky fruit, and I tell them they just have not tried a proper one. It's like saying you don't like tofu (!) when you're just tasting the thing uncooked. Well duh, would you enjoy a bite of raw uncooked unmarinated unflavoured unsalted chicken? If you said, yes, just...go...go..away....x out of here.

The grapefruit is a beautiful thing. In my opinion, it is better than oranges and even (gasp gasp) perhaps tangerines. But as with mostly everything, you have to have the ones that are just right. The gorgeous ruby red, or the pamplemoussey pink. Sluuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrp.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014


This guy is just so dashing! I can't say 'cute' because that's not exactly it, nor exactly is 'hot', because it's not just that either. But it's everything, along with whatever makes him HIM.

Oh yes she is, yes IQ has done it again - she is gushing about a celebrity. Cue eye-rolls and sighs.

Well hey, it has been pretty damn long since I actually did ever blog about a celebrity crush.....In fact, I can't even remember an occasion in recent history where I really did this. All that comes to my mind as a poignant example is my "Love Triangle" post about ahem ImRanbir. Way back in...........well way back. I'd probably have to dig back in my archives on Lucid to reference that for y'all.

Anyways - Farhan! Yes, sir! Don't get me wrong, I don't really have serious pangs of passion or even crushistic pangs...but I can't help but think to myself, in a sort of abstracted way, that duuuuuuude, this guy is ........something.

I always have, in fact, about Farhan. He just stands out, you know? In a different, non-typical-Bollywood-celebrity way. And yes, for the record I am talking about Farhan Akhtar.

I don't know. I ask myself, does his background contribute to my curious interest in him? Son of Javed the Great Lyricist, step son of Shabana...well certainly that's intriguing, and err ok, Honey Irani was before my time meh.  He's an artist and HELLO of course that is going to hook my interest, the same way my interest in Sallu was when I learnt that he paints (painter alert hubba hubba). I liked him in Luck by Chance. And I really really liked him in Karthik Calling Karthik.  I'm not even going to mention the box office blasters.

 Ah I don't know. His smile. His crinkles when he does. His muted personality - like, it's not that boisterous "Oh, I'm all that" type. It's that sort of zen type, the same personality vibe that always (always) attracts me. It's part of the reason I even liked both Ranbir and Imran. That laidback, reeeeeeeeeeelaxed, zen thing.

Anyways, yeah, so I just spent a post or so going off on a tangent about this fellow. Why?

I watched Shaadi Ke Side Effects, of course. It's been such a long time since I even watched a Hindi movie. Or rather, any movie, really. I don't even know if I am able to put into words what I think about the movie, but I liked it -- and yet, I sort of didn't. I liked some moments in it, and some moments which obviously call upon the viewer to relate, and yeahhhhhhhhhhh. I don't know. Just..........


Tuesday, April 22, 2014


Ah those good ol' hormones. Can't live with em, can't live without them. Well, certainly - and literally- the latter, anyways.

We often associate hormones with two phenomenons, generally. First, that of our time of puberty, when we're suddenly awakening to an enhanced realization of our physicality, and moreover, the physicality of the other gender, and its effect upon us. Secondly, and unfortunately, hormones are often generalized and associated with the unforgiving period of err, ..yes pun intended. PMS.

But then again, that's not just it right? Obviously not the case, because our every moment is a flux of hormones running about our body, up and down and around and around. Every single stimulation that occurs, each reaction, that's it right there, hormones at work.

Having been a medical biology student, this was stuff of immense interest to me. Not purely in the studious way either, but the magical way these organic compounds within us seemed to make meaning of how we function and more importantly...why. Once I mastered the basics it was easier to come to terms with those spells of moods and feelings by knowing what was behind it.

Along the way came the relief in realizing that my strange inclination to become teary quite easily was also perfectly explained. Crying was not a weakness, but in fact a normal biological reaction wherein external stimuli which threatened our emotional well-being, or tipped that balance one way or the other (because, afterall, we can cry in happiness too), incited the production of emotional tears, and in so doing, stimulating the release of endorphins into our bloodstreams.

Endorphins? Yep, those feel-good hormones. You may be familiar with that rush of exhiliration that comes with a good dose of exercise, or emotional connectivity with another special person (i.e. love) or...physical connectivity. The chemical composition of endorphins are very similar to forget having a joint of heroin or popping them codeine pills...whenever you need a mood boost, all you gotta do is exercise, or fall in love, or err make love. Or cry.

Monday, April 21, 2014


At a very young age, I was finally enrolled in dance classes. I say finally, because it seemed like that was what was just waiting to happen, I slid so seamlessly into the role of the dancer.

These were the standard classical Kathak dance form, and my father having also been totally raised in the world where classical art forms were a requisite, it was only natural that he'd finally get his own children into the same thing. Classical music was something we already had started since he himself was a music teacher, but the actual art form of Kathak was something best left to a real dance teacher.

And boy did I love it. The arrangements, the ability to simply let go and feel your body just sway to those internal and external rhythms...I couldn't ever explain the sensation it created within. To me, it felt like life itself was already a rhythm, and this was the best way to exercise an excuse to move to it, moreover it just seemed to make so much sense of life itself. It felt so amazing to find oneself amidst a moving body all synchronized and contributing to a bigger sense of togetherness intertwined with music.

Slowly but surely, I mastered the movements and was promoted from class to class, until one day I was the smallest child amidst all these huge women. I was -as I am still now - the quiet and somewhat reticent one, and I wasn't fully formed into the grace that usually underlines femininity, and as a result I likely projected a somewhat self-conscious aura...but inside, that's where it all bloomed in the thrall of it all. I relished those moments, even as I in my self-conscious self dreaded it.

It was often the attention that made me dread the experience. I have never really been the kind of person who wants to be totally in the limelight - I guess I've always preferred being in the background, the support...although, there was also this ambiguous sensation of loving the ability to shine. It's something that sort of pulls me this way and that even till now, because I suppose there is that fluctuation balance of introvert and extrovert that constant moves the way tides do, a sway and comfort left to whichever influences are around me.

A vivid memory serves as the perfect example of this quandary. My teacher had the habit of picking on me to show off the proper way to perform a certain dance step or technique, and on this particular day, she had already asked two other bigger girls (women?) to do this for the others, and they both didn't do it the way it should have been done. She turns her glance finally toward me, gives me that haughty and knowing smirkful look of hers - I was fearful of that look, but now that I'm older and have met her since that young age, I realize this was simply her way of showing her quiet approval and pride and certainty that I was accomplished -  she asked me to do it. I looked around and felt the dread of the attention, and not only that, but more strongly the sensation that once I "showed-off" the technique and did it easily and perfectly, the other girls would hate me for it. So midway, I purposely screwed it up. And felt immediate relief in doing so...although she gave me a searching look as if she knew exactly what I did. But for me at that moment, screwing up despite knowing that I was more than capable was a better option than proving this for all to see and being singled out for it.

My dance teacher also decided that while we learnt the classical techniques, we should also be performing the usual 'bollywood' type dances, and this is something my father wasn't too happy with. He wanted the rigor of conservative and original classical dance forms, not for his money to be put into performances of little girls shaking their bootys and yet-non-existant bosoms around the stage. Soon, my having stayed at the top class without the teacher able to teach me more, and the increase of Bollywood-inspired dances, my many years as a dance student was put to an end.

Often I think back to those days and feel a longing to have been able to continue dancing in the learning environment. It was structured and such that I didn't feel the self-consciousness I did in other environments to move around and dance, because that was what was expected.

And that brings me to the other side of the coin. I am always the most reluctant of persons to join friends and whoever on the casual dance floor. I'd rather sit quietly or stay in conversation with a really good friend, or eat (ha), rather than get up and make a monkey exhibition of myself. I can't explain this reticence, I'm not really comfortable in doing the party type dancing thing...despite dance being there in my blood. I guess it's that sway again, of introvert and extrovert. It isn't really so much what other people will think of me, either, it's just a matter of my own personal comfort level.

Despite that, I still catch myself moving about unconsciously when I'm listening to music, privately and even publicly - and of course, when I'm all alone I have no qualms, dancing about early in the morning with my hairbrush while I'm getting ready to go to work is usually the norm, and the best of all is coming home down the pathways in the twilight dark or thundering rains and just letting go and dancing like no one's watching!

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Cheese & Crackers

Have you ever noticed how a lot of the best foods start with C? I've just finished baking a cake, and yesterday I made some cupcakes (the best I've ever made, just to have it said. Woohoo).

I had intended to talk about my love for crackers and cheese, the combination that beats the most luxurious of meals hands down on a good day. Then I thought, well while I am on a roll, I may as well talk about this observation I had made since I was a kiddo - how most of the more delicious foods start with C.

I'm not really the kind of person who has a sweet tooth, if anything, my weakness is geared toward the more 'snacky' items. Chips and crackers top that list. I don't know why, but I tend to have more cravings for the salty and greasy things over the sweet and buttery. That isn't to say I don't enjoy sweet things, I would be lying if I said so - but I feel more repulsed with the idea of injected so much refined sugar (and its companions in most dessert items) into my body. Don't ask me how that says it's okay to indulge is greasy and salty carbs, but then again, I also don't really indulge in either, I simply get cravings for the one over the other more often.

But back to the original thought. Crackers and cheese. Mmm. One of my 'small happinesses' I thought to myself the other day, when after dinner I strangely got some hunger pangs, and returned after a foray in the kitchen with 5 crackers and two chunks of marble cheese. Indulging in this small impromptu snack, I fell into a trance of pleasure caused by the ecstasy of texture, taste and, well, perhaps the internal reaction of having those hunger pangs sated.

For me, I thought with a mouth filled with soda cracker and cheese, the most simplest of foods are the best. And it's sort of true, I feel more 'fulfilled' I guess you could say, with eating the more natural and simple things: a slice of fresh bread with a swipe of butter, a handful of sweet peas, a bowl of corn, not to mention my absolute love of fresh and raw fruits and vegetables.

Maybe that's why the craving for those C-foods becomes all the more pronounced when they do pop up. A packet of chips and a can of Coke...what's your favourite C-food?

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Baby Talk

Being the eldest child in the family had its advantages and disadvantages. With our rationed 'TV time', we often had the same hour slotted when we three would sit in front the telly, and however older I grew, my genre was still restricted to minimal growth because the younger ones could not watch what would have been deemed 'tween' appropriate, while still toddlerish themselves. So while my own cohorts were watching Saved by the Bell and all the other cool shows with real kids I was relagated to sticking to watching, what we called, 'baby shows'.

When I think about it, I couldn't even put a finger on how they were called this -- it just seemed the natural nomenclature that we just always called children shows. And in calling them 'baby shows' we didn't even really distinguish the two words; to our minds, it was one word, the label itself, that was the descriptor; we didn't pause to think it was really two independent words, 'baby' and 'shows' and moreoever, the first meaning we were...babies. It was just 'babyshows' and that meant the cartoons and puppety-type children programs we grew up watching.

Likewise, as the original leader - by default of age (advantage)- of us siblings, I had cultivated a whole sibling vocabulary that was totally exclusive to only us. And remembering and ruminating on their origins also totally amuses and mystifies me. For example, high heels were only known to us as 'cracking shoes'. And bras, to our innocuous minds yet to be filled with universal labels and names, were declared to be called 'booby patches'!

I have to admit, I look back at my younger self with great amusement, but lots of pride. I am constantly amazed at my capacity for random creativity and ingenuity at such a young age. When I think of that younger me, I almost can't recognize her as the same me who is I right now, it's almost like this little bundle of imagination who is another child altogether, and a child I feel total love and protectiveness and a sort of internal craving to have a child of my own just like her.

Friday, April 18, 2014


It is sort of odd to think about now, but when I was a kid, I was scared of animals. I couldn’t rightly tell you why, exactly, but then that seemed to be a perfectly normal fear for kids to be having, so perhaps an explanation isn’t required. But indeed, the most vivid recollection of this fear to this day stands out clear:

We had gone to the TVO headquarters. TVO being the local province’s channel - not that I knew that at the time, and actually, I was never actually sure what it was until writing this and realizing I may have to sound as if I knew something about it, which I don’t really, not that this is a government funded educational network, all I knew in my time with the channel was that it was where we found most of our favourite kids shows. The Polkadot Door, The Elephant Show…etc. Anyways, at this exhibition at the TVO headquarters, we had the chance to see and touch a live beaver. And for the life of me, I wasn’t able to make myself do it. I was freaked out. My younger siblings were fine, they stretched out their tiny tiny hands and gave it a pat or two. Me on the other hand, hysterics. NO WAY was I touching that thing.

The thing is, I loved animals…in theory. But we just never had the experience of dealing with them hands on. My cousin in New York had a cat, Queenie, and I did like her, except…well, she was one of those poncy type cats, who had airs and believed she was rightly named. Moreover, while I used to try to entice her (at a safe distance, always) with scraps of processed cheese left in a trail experimentally to see if she would actually follow it (but no her fatness and laziness greatly overcame her greed, I came to conclude), she actually came within very close proximity – a new thing for both of us – and I found myself gazing at her green eyes and persuading myself that this was the time for me to overcome my hesitation of touching an animal.

She left me with four claw marks, each so perfectly placed along the side of each four fingers of the hand that had reached out to pet her.

So much for my animal love.

To try and trace the fear, I could also share the few cloudy memories of having visited my grandparents out in the countryside, where they had a number of dogs. Whiskey and Brandy were two hugely ferocious and scary dogs – the type that were large, menacing, didn’t shut up with their barking, and perpetually drooled while baring their fangs at you. For some reason an uncle found it immensely amusing to taunt me by pushing me closer and closer toward the dog’s reach, for the dog was leashed on a chain that could only go so far. I recall that memory being graced with my tears.

On the other hand, I still for some reason, loved animals…in theory. I can’t explain it, I just always feel this secret bond with them. I see them – bird, squirrel, dog, cat, whatever - and something within me kind of awakens, I feel as if I am continuing an ongoing conversation.

Aside from Whiskey and Brandy (and yes, my grandfather liked his drink), there was this whitish, husky-type dog (and for the record, this has always been my favourite type of dog). It was leashed apart from the other dogs, I don’t know why, but it was to the other side of the house, and under a great tree that stretched upward along the side of the second-story balcony. That is where I spent many hours, looking down at the dog whom I decided to call “Princess” – and I persuaded myself that we, Princess and I, were great friends, and that with special whistles and other noises, we were communicating. In fact, I also wrote special notes with drawings on tiny scraps of paper, and floated them down to Princess.

It was many years before I ever thought to ask what happened to Princess, but for some reason noone could recall a dog named Princess, and I tried to describe the childhood memory, about that dog that was tied to the tree on that side of the house – only to be told, OH THAT DOG, that dog was a male.

It was a number of years later that we visited our relatives in New York to discover that my favourite cousin had gotten himself a pair of ferrets. This isn’t your usual pet, and indeed most people – you included I would not be surprised to say – would react with disbelief or even disgust at the idea of harbouring a rodent-like animal such as this as a pet.

And yeeaah, the first couple of visits I was all askance too. Then I fell in love with Booboo.

Booboo was the bigger of the two. All he did was sleep, eat and lay about. That’s it. A gentle bundle of fur that totally totally won my heart over. Booboo was essentially mine. The other one, Nippy, lived up to her name: she nipped everyone she could with her tiny little incisors, and was a skinny, ratty, feisty and fast little thing. Booboo was my love. I could relate with Booboo because – not that I was fat or whatever – but simply that gentle, quiet, laidback easygoing nature that totally reflected mine. When I think of Booboo, I remember laying back on the sofa with Booboo on my chest, watching Balto. Some of my best memories were those summers spent with Booboo. I even created a soapstone sculture for an art exhibit of Booboo – years after the sad news that both ferrets were gone.

After Booboo, I was totally cured of my fear of animals. I was cured of loving animals only in theory. I would visit the pet shop that was in the same building as my workplace every chance I could.

Then came Milly. My 1-year old baby kitten. I can’t even begin to describe the magic that comes with having her in my life. So I won’t even try. Instead I’m going to end this and have a good cuddle with her.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014


Suddenly these days, I have detached myself from the hanger labelled with my name. I'm not sure if I remain who I am...or rather, who I was. This incongruity remains the common denominator amidst every other filament intertwining to become this semblance of being that is myself.

'You are so unhappy' having markedly resounded the past weeks, maybe months, a proclamation that broke the hearts of two most definitely, and perhaps even more than two for the fluttering effects of the butterfly upon those whose lives are so interconnected. But two, it certainly did.

I am not sure what this state of being happy is, not quite so well as I once believed I did. What, I ask, as the snow furiously falls and gusts in the middle of April, when the month was supposed to bring us rainshowers to usher in the warmth of blooms and blossoms anew, what is happiness?

For I had in my hands the shattered remains of what I had believed was happiness - and I was not entirely unhappy. When we break our happy, is it ever truly broken? When our happiness has joined the shadows of darkness, is it ever truly and completely gone? Can this phantom really be something ever entire devoid and separate from us?

I am in another process of metamorphosis. At times, I feel a throbbing heaving sensation to sob, and sob, and cry - and yet, I do not know entirely why. And at times, I feel the most incredible sense of peace. Of oneness. And contentment. And for this too, I could not fathom a cause or reason.

In one moment, I felt, I could have lost it all. And yet, I am still here. And to merely exist - what could I say I had really lost? A momentary release of overclutched desires - a stubborn refusal or a longstanding habit, it made no difference. My dreams I felt had burst in billions of pieces and I could not tell whether it was a celebration of confetti, or piercing shards of glass.

And I felt nothing.

To consider the magnitude of the process. The actual thing itself - it was in effect the thing I felt that would kill me. And to this moment I remain. To consider that these numbers, so many of them, so much that they have enumerated a sum that could cause a prolonged state of disillusionment simply by itself - are the many years that I have led myself along a leash in belief that my happiness was such.

My happiness, I believed, or had started building in belief from a very young age, was firmly and thoroughly founded in love. All else in life I felt were mere trivialities for without love, I could not be complete, nor fulfilled, nor happy.

And then I found love. And I died every death I had died in those many long years - the pains, the hardships, the aches, the wounds, the tears, the sorrows, the anguish, the torment- they surged upward again and again in the throes of my fallen state, and they healed. 

They healed because the simple cauterizing effect of love merged all pains into one huge ball of fire of what defined the 'before' and submerged itself in the cooling waterfalls of cascading love to reemerge no longer inflamed but defining the 'after' by the mere juxtaposition of proven endurance.

This is a story that will be understood those who have truly loved.  Or have loved, somewhat untruly. For what is or is not true?  That we only decipher, somewhat haphazardly, in the whispers between the heart and mind.

Now I feel our moments are slipping out of grasp. Like an infinite cascade of sand particles falling, and falling, and falling, I feel that they are all slipping away, and that I had been the only one trying to catch them all before they were lost. And it took me awhile, but then I realized that it was just me, only my two little hands that were trying to keep this from totally slipping beyond our grasp. And it was not both of us.

And now I have let go. Let the cascade go wherever the hell it wants to go; because  I should not be the one to hold on so tight to what is meant to be held on by two.

It is falling. But it is still there. I do not know where they go, or if they run out, or if it ever stops.

We don't need to try, your voice says, because whatever is meant to happen, will happen.

And for some reason, I am learning, even as the tears fall, that happiness is still there. Even despite the tiny ways the pain shoots through in spontaneous and unpredictable ways, I am curiously free. I have given up on holding on, and yet holding on has not given up on itself. Giving up has not tendered itself for attendance.

Happiness does not really need to mean the absence of sorrow.

Wednesday, April 09, 2014


I've always been pretty health-conscious. From the little girl waiting for the rest of the family to finish getting ready so we could gooooo in the car already, I'd be climbing over fences and trees, overdressed in the frilly lacy white dress; always play-fighting with the guys during school recesses; tournament-ing as the undefeated handball queen of school, with a mile long line up of guys who wanted a chance to face-off against me; relishing those gut-burning laps each morning in highschool; working out 3 hours a day, every day in university - the list goes on.

The physical aspect aside, I've always taken eating healthy seriously too. It just always made sense. I was born and raised a vegetarian, so the questions surrounding that eating lifestyle were only second to nature. Plus, I was far far far away from being the sort of child who had money of any kind to spend on anything, nevermind outside foods. I learnt to be healthy and thrifty - partly of choice, party of upbringing, partly of necessity.

I'd never been the kind who'd drop five dollars for a slice of cake, just because the opportunity was there. Nor did I relish the idea of even wasting that money on something so frivolous and unhealthy. It was simply how I was programmed.

Then, my circumstances and lifestyle altered. I had emerged from the cocoon of a student and was now working. I was making my own money - and despite the fact that I had a plan in place to save what I earned in order to pay off my student loans, as well as finance other important medical and home-oriented expenses - I started becoming a spender.

Ah - the feel-good thrill of being able to just take out your card and use it to pay for anything. My first passion was books, and soon I was a regular browser among the bins of books in the department store across where I worked. Then, there were the many clothes sales that one just could not help noticing. And, it was time! I was grown up and I needed to buy my own girly clothes, especially for work! Gone were the days of wearing hand-me-downs, or over-sized clothes bought by my clueless father.

Then came the food. With longer hours spent working, with the exhaustion of working, suddenly those sandwiches brought to work from home didn't seem so appealing. I'd end up taking a walk to the food-court, and one random purchase led to another, and another. I explored all the possibilities of every take-out joint and their menus. Taco Bell, Oriental Express, McDonalds, Tim Hortons, Second Cup, New York Fries, Pizza Hut, Pizza Pizza...the list went on, ...... and on.

Somehow the process of ordering and indulging in such foods seemed to fulfill a lack of something within me. There was my triumph in being able to do this independently, all resentfulness toward the lack of ever being able to fueling the process. There was the therapy in just indulging itself. I couldn't even explain what was going on in my mind - but as I write this now, I can tell you that it was a symptom of something not too healthy in me psychologically.

No; I'm not saying that I was a total psycho-case. But, I was depressed.

This habit wasn't really a total symptom of my depression, I will grant you that. It was just where a whole bunch of circles happened to overlap in the many Venn diagrams of my life. And no, you wouldn't have been able to tell that I was in any state of depression because I still laughed and smiled and conversed normally and was just as hyper and funny as I seemed to be.

I indulged, because it made me feel better, and I felt better because I indulged. The thing is, I was exhausted and while I was really active at work, I rationalized with myself subconsciously, and had stopped attending to my body health-wise. I had stopped working out, and I had started eating out more; on the premise that it made me feel better, and out of some sort of spitefulness within that I really couldn't care less about how healthy I was and I really couldnt care less about whatever was going in my body, because I was lonely and would remain lonely and I didn't give a damn.

The problem was, the sort of food that I was putting into my body was really deranging my mind; more than it already was. More lethargic, more sluggish. Less inclined to feel healthy and therefore to think healthy and feel healthy.

It was a sort of catch-22 of sorts; because I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't. I resented my loneliness, but wanted more. And I wouldn't get that more because I refused to change and get myself out of the bubble. So I ignored all voice of reason, and took pride in my unhealthy ways.

Then my bank balance hit 0.

Yes, you read that right. 0. ZERO. Nada, zit, nilch. $0.000000000000000000000000000000.

How, you might ask, could I let this ever happen? And you have to consider that this was an independent me. I never had relied on being given money from any parental forces. In fact, had never relied on support from any parental forces, or anyone at all. Which was, of course, of considerable significance in regards to why I was depressed at all.

So there I was: Kodak moment. A chubby-cheeked, tubby me. Nice new clothes. Awesomely done (new) makeup. Great bag. Great shoes. Pile of books. Breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks: all from outside. Bank balance: 0. Oh yeah, and to add insult to injury, don't forget the very unhealthy hair (loss) due to my awesome junk food diet.

Wait, what? I was saving for ..for.. those expenses....wasn't I?

Well perhaps I should have been more honest with myself. In my splurge of 'damned with it all' I didn't even intend to have any sort of future. I didn't care that much.

Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have stepped outside of this self-contained bubble of mine and took a good look at my lifestyle. I thought I had it bad - I didn't even know how much more worse it was going to get.

I'm going to gloss over the really depressing years of depression and homelessness here because yeah, it was bad.

But I learnt the hard way. I sat down, and did a tally of everything I had purchased over the years. And to this day it still shames me. I had always been the kind of person who said that I shouldn't sit in self-pity or self-indulgence because there were so so so many people out there who had it worse. Even at my worse, I acknowledged that I was living in a world of luxury. And there are those who believe that it is simply the way of the world and it isn't our problem that others are in poverty and it isn't our job to try to fix it. Oh, the little (or not so little) things we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better about our own lifestyle. And sometimes, we only start to care when it happens to ourselves.

Now, I'm as beautiful as ever - not that I wasn't in the midst of my bad phase, but I didn't believe in it. Now I'm almost vain with how I see myself in the mirror, or check out my healthy body. Now I'm beautiful, now I am sexy. I don't need makeup or clothes to make me feel good. And it isn't just the physical aspect: I inside I feel more grounded and fulfilled. And once I started taking the steps toward a healthier me, I started appreciating life more, I started appreciating myself more. And somehow, in taking the step toward loving myself, things just started happening for the good. I embraced my lonleliness, but was proactive about the things I could make better, and then I wasn't alone anymore, I was loved.

Now, I sleep a full 8 hours a day, regularly. Sure there are those nights when I'll stay up longer, but those nights of staying up until the sun comes up are long gone. They weren't healthy. Now, I eat only what I cook or prepare myself. It's healthier, and more tasty, and definitely much less costlier. Why would I want to spend 5 bucks on one meal, when that's 5 bucks that would feed a whole family somewhere else in the world. Nevermind the 5 bucks a meal, but then there are those who spend that much on just a drink; which is why I am not a fan of Starbucks. If you can get a coffee elsewhere cheaper, say, for a dollar, why needlessly spend the extra 4 dollars for refined sugar and corn syrup? To have it then clog up your body and have you spend another fortune on gym equipment or membership, or on medication or surgery or pain relief as you grow older?

Yeah yeah, I know how judgemental and idealistic all this sounds. It's like good grief girl, lighten up! The sun is shining and life goes on. Sure it is, sure it does. But how much you appreciate that sunlight is a direct consequence of how you live your life. Enjoy the little things in life, but consider how much you really need something. We've long time ago recognized what a materialistic world we've become, and this also is another toxic cycle: we rely on materials and less on others; we turn inward and into our new technologies and devices and isolate ourselves; we become lonely, depressed; we turn to our short-term pleasure fulfillers even more. And so on.

Take the step yourself to break free. Do something healthy for yourself. Turn offline. Go for a walk. Grab a fruit. Drink some water. Breathe in, deeply, and remind yourself that you don't need to live today as if a tomorrow is or isn't promised; live today simply for today. Live.

Sunday, April 06, 2014


It's like, once I had you in my life, all the other things faded away. All those 'small pleasures' of life which kept me company, from moment to moment, just paled considerably in comparison to the great happiness of your love.

It shouldn't have been that way, it should have been the other way around. And it was for some time: all those little things shone even brighter with the capacity to enjoy and share. Then somehow, the importance of you started to grow and grow, and everything else became negligible, unremarkable, fading to the background, there but unseen.

You were the sun that shone so greatly; all the other, smaller, happinesses were those stars which were there but unseen; their light oushone by the light that was you.

There is a beauty in loneliness; the smallest things are ever more pronounced, more treasured because of the dirt they are mired within. And I am rediscovering them.

Saturday, April 05, 2014


The sun was shining bright. Brighter than it has in a long, long time. So bright, it envelopes the entire room with its glare; hot, blinding upon my face.

This is the way I've wished it could have always been. The way I'd been waiting, and waiting. Enduring the coldest, bleakest of days, the torture of frostbite, the days made more tired in waiting, and waiting.

The weather never looked upon my unhappiness and told me to get lost. I had no choice, and I had to endure. I waited and waited and today it shines bright.

This is the day I have waited for, and the sun shines bright. But to enjoy it, I do so alone. More alone than I have been.

Is this my decision, or is this yours? I have been giving, and giving. Waiting, and waiting. You told me I was unhappy; you showed me the door. You never considered for a second, with love, that you could do something to try to take it away; you said take me as I am, and if you are unhappy, you know what to do; go.

Easy for you, to leave the decision to me that way. So today I go. And the sun shines bright. But today you've shown me the door, and the light has left my eyes; the light has left my heart.

Friday, April 04, 2014


On the topic of love, and that saying that says something along the lines of how in love you shouldn't try to change a person; I don't really agree.

I mean, it's like saying two people are going to be TOTALLY in tune with one another that there will be no need to change either, but to my mind that is a love that's more an arranged marriage. Because, in an arranged marriage that's what you are looking for, similiarities, compatibility, same upbringing, background, blah di blah bloo.

I don't deal that way. I ain't arranged marriage material. Never was, never will be. And that is why I would not expect my own love story to have to conform to these measures, moreover to these 'wise old sayings'.

Yes, of course, there is some sense in the saying. I understand that much and I'm not only going to let my innate contentiousness abolish my ability to comprehend that. I know that the saying means you love a person for who they are. Sweet and simple. I appreciate that. But then, as often happens, these philosophies become misinterpreted and exploited by those who feel it would benefit them.

Dear love. I don't want to change you. But I want to be able to maximize the benefits of living in you, and therefore in us. I don`t want to get into your very-personal space; and yes, sometimes it`s a very thin line to consider since in love, one would think there shouldn`t be any such boundary, nevertheless it is there. It is there simply because despite the graciousness of becoming one soul in two bodies, we are still somewhat hindered by the mere fact that we are two bodies, and two minds, and therefore, love and absolute togetherness aside, we are distinct individuals. So I get it, I am not trying to take over that space of yours where you can be you and breathe in your own being. But I am still going to want to help you become a better person - not only inside but outside as well.

The thing is, when you say you can`t change, won`t change, and that I shouldn`t ask you to, what you are doing is in effect asking ME to change. I have to change the things I want and have always wanted, the things I have been comfortable to, to let you be the way you want to be. To let you do the things you want to. Is that selfishness? Or does that indicate that we don't suit one another, or that we are absolutely incompatible? No, it certainly does not, because there are 928340234829 things that already prove that we are compatible, and this thing about love that just happens, and you can't explain it, means that these kind of weird obstacles are going to crop up because we are still in the process of learning and unearthing things about each other and about ourselves and about this one whole entity called us.

Of course we are going to have to change. We were someone totally different before we became us. And we continue to evolve into different people as each moment goes by, with each breath we take, with each word we say, with each thought we think. We change.

Maybe we shouldn't just look at it as strictly 'change'. Love means we learn to become a better person than we have been, as each moment goes by, with each breathe we take, with each step we take...together.

Thursday, April 03, 2014


Just this morning, I was in the shower and know, how one just thinks random stuff, while still in the process of waking up? So, what I was thinking about was ... a whole bunch of things (another attribute of that kind of half-asleep thinking is the way you zoom from one thought to the next in superhero speed, you end up somewhere completely different from the first thought. Something very much like how I write, come to think of it).

For some reason I was ruminating on the strange way I have of contemplating something in my being, and the entity of that thought somehow manifesting itself in physicality. I say 'contemplating something in my being' as a catch-all way of saying that state is inclusive of thinking, dreaming, and feeling. It's contained there inside my mind in whatever form, and then the next thing I know something happens in real life (as in, outside my head) and I'm thinking, hey waitaminute. I just contemplated this in my being (thought/dreamt/felt/considered etc. this). 

It's happened SO many times that I am at a loss to even be able to provide you with a clear example. That seems kind of like it's working the wrong way around, because if it has happened so many times, I ought to have so many examples in hand. But yeah. 

The reason I bring this topic up now though is because it JUST happened. Yesterday, for some reason, I was browsing through Google Images, looking for - don't ask me why - book spines. Through my searching process, I altered my search phrases to 'vintage book spines' 'old book spines' etc. I professedly spent about half to three-quarters of an hour in this endeavour.

Today, for some weird reason, PenguinBooks decides to tweet a picture of a bunch of their classic book spines all lined up together.

Saaay wut.

This is just one example of 98408340983402374283472937598 that similar "coincidences" have happened. This is on the low-end of the freak-scale, there have been serious jaw-dropping and eye-popping instances. 

Speaking of weird incidents, I had a very strange dream last night. There were more details to the gist of it which I am about to share with you, but yeah. Trying to remember the details never works. 

So I was basically running a marathon with a bunch of people and one of them was Hrithik Roshan, and I beat him in the marathon (I came first). Yep.