Is it just the natural human predeliction for greener grass on the other side that sends my thoughts careening through paths that I feel my life will noe never be able to take? Or have my eyes opened to the fact that what I have fought for and now slyly acheived is far less than my fertile imagination had promised it would be? Perhaps this is fitting retribution for the selfish lies I have said to feed that fantasy. With my hands wrapped around a dream, I floated too far away from the familiar, the safe and the accepted to ever come back. And yet as that dream slowly crystalized into reality, I realized that I was falling at a fast clip towards a lifetime dedicated to disappointment and self-recrimination. I am heading there now - the hard truth of my choices rushing up to meet me with deadly force. And rather than face that spectre, I want to anchor myself to another dream - this time even more prepostrous - of returning to my roots, of cocooning myself in safety, familiarity and acceptance. I struggle to remind myself why I had scorned that in the first place, but all my stubborn mind wants to bring up is the satisfied smile on faces dearly beloved, the warmth of a choice well received, the slumber of one not riddled with myriad guilty secrets. There is a part of me that screams in warning - telling me to not dare forget the hollow emptiness of dreams discarded, the climbing frustration of sacrifices made at enormous prices taken for granted - almost demanded, of the possibility of a far from story book ending of which I have already had a poisonous taste. The venom of that experience must be fading from my blood, for I no longer can use my righteous outrage and sorrow as a sheild against the entreaties of those whom I have never denied before. And yet - when I followed my foolish dream to escape the system, I unwittingly made commitments to a life I now find myself afraid to lead. While I no longer beleive there is much pain to be suffered by another - for a lot of the emotion had been as much a figment of my imagination as my "happily ever after" - I still quail at the thought of looking my mistake in the eye. And once turned back, what if my stupid mind trows up roadblocks and regrets again? Perhaps I am fated to forever stand at the mouth of the crossroads alone - undecided and fearful of each, yet coveting both destinations.

There is a despair in me that I cannot explain away with all my inventive genius. I can't put my finger on whether it's guilt at the consequences I have now chosen to add to lives other than mine with my selfish needs or if its pure wishful thinking for utopian win-wins. Maybe its a sorry mix of both - yes that's most likely it. I find myself praying silenty for a miracle - for it will take one for all parties involved to come out unscathed. And when I pray that I be the ONLY one to suffer the aftereffects of my mindless decisions, I am aware that it is neither greatness of character nor magnamity of my soul that drives me to want to fall on my sword. No - rather it is plain old cowardice. I could not live with the thought that the cost of my loves will be paid in someone else's tears. Every second of that pain they undergo will drive my guilt into me like a thousand white hot blades and the agony of knowing I wrought this disaster will choke me of any desire to breathe. I did not come this far, lose this much, hurt so hard, work so long to go slinking into the night as nothing more than a disappointment or a betrayal. But even the Almighty will have to execute some pretty fancy footwork to work out the tangle of knots I have inadvertantly woven into my life and those of my dearest ones. If my prayers are answered retribution will be a lightning shard that incinerates my very being to ashes without harming a hair on the head of those I dragged unwittingly into my perdition. Its funny how the least deserving of us are the ones to ask for the biggest miracles - isnt it?

From Another Life:
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Stillwater, OK

Can a girl regret a good impulse? OH YES! In many ways there is a part of me that sighs with smug satisfaction at what I just did. Thats the part of me that wears a blinding white saree with a blue border and magically removes crusty stains from clothes, always smiling, big red bindi gleaming on her forehead like a beacon of her morality and the victory of her upbringing. The other part - the one that..if she had washboard abs..would be wearing a cut off tee and torn denim, smoking a ciggy at the bar- that part is whacking her head on the shiny bar counter and yelling unmentionable obescenities. Though, much to my saree clad self's chagrin, it wasn't so much my dedication to polishing my halo that finished something I had myself unwittingly started. It was pride. I mean yes, who doesnt like to think that respect makes up for the lack of ..well many things. But the truth is, respect is a cold bedfellow. The truth is it was just pride - the kind of pride that wrinkles its nose disgustedly at me when I know I am being undervalued, and I am willing to take it in lieu of abject boredom - that pulled me up short of folly, or perhaps from truth - who knows!. Even when I could do better - I'd chosen not to..for various better reasons, but basically boredom. But sometimes 'almost' just doesnt become 'enough' anymore. You see, I know what perfection feels like, I have tasted it, felt it settle into my marrow before I learned to search for flaws, seize them eagerly,flaunt them and then to transplant that transient perfection with ever-lasting mediocrity. Now, when even mediocrity has sloughed off my slick skin, I realize - what perfection exists, other than in divinity, that is not fleeting? Too late, too late! Perfection - even its fickle beauty so tainted, by my own knowing hands, does not wash clean - all my Lady Macbethian efforts wasted. And knowing that, accepting my incompleteness, resigning myself to my self inflicted wounds it seems has not taught ego to knuckle, kneel, break in supplication. Some part of me - and I dont know what she likes to wear, I dont know if she sports a bindi or if she smokes - rejoices in my imperfection still.

Someone I know sent me an article the other day - about the weight of an employee being in inverse proportion to their career and remuneration growth. Instantly I felt myself filling up with hot rage, drowning in so much anger and outrage. Most of it was directed towards myself for associating with someone who would forward something like that to me. But I was admittedly shocked that a person's weight would affect their professional lives in such a significant manner. I don't buy that productivity BS about fat people being more prone to disease and therefore time away from work. Thats like justifying that women should be paid less because of the possibility that they will at some time avail themselves of their maternity leave. I don't think the productivity benefits based on an employee's potential health condition is a serious consideration with employers. However I do beleive one's appearance has a lot to do with opinions made on the so called dispassionate professional level. Being overweight is associated in most minds with a weak will, sloppiness, lack of personal pride and discipline. While I do not personally subscribe to that view, I can see why that opinion might exist and how it can influence a person's ability to make a favorable FIRST impression. But shouldn't someone's proven track record of hard work and talent be sufficient to overset the effect of the prejudice? But then that is the nature of prejudice - it is never reasonable and therefore can hardly be reasoned away with logic. If even a friend cannot see the forest for the trees, maybe reforming a close-minded associate from work is close to impossible. The sad part is that most likely the author of the article and the 'friend' that sent it would congratulate themselves if they knew that I went an extra half hour at the gym, skipped another meal - afterall its just tough love right? What it really translates into for me is another time I cry in the shower, another person I cannot trust to look at me and see any quality in me beyond my weight. What is boils down to is in all the planes you exist on - among friends, with a lover, in a boardroom - nothing can make up for an imperfect body.

January 24, 2007
Wednesday

I think I might have redeemed myself - atleast a little bit. Though I am still mortified at thinking I might have unwittingly led someone on. I wonder if it has to do with how I talk - the interest I take in the other person- that almost always gives the wrong impression about my intentions? I genuinely like people - I enjoy spending time with them, getting to know their stories, their personalities. Lately though I think I have been so frantic to engage my attentions anywhere but on certain other events that my enthusiasm is easily misunderstood. I have had one friend tell me its the way I look at someone fondly, another tells me its the way I smile. I hate to think my body language is unconsciously inviting people to think I am more interested in them than I really am. But the source of this problem is obviously me since this has re-ocurred often enough. Everything one does though is so open to interpretation and I am so impulsive that I don't stop think if my actions have an implication I am not prepared to deal with. Who would think always being ready to talk and listen to someone sends out a message of more than concerned friendship? I mean every moment of my work day I am chatting with Kavi - she doesn't assume that I am sending her secret signals of whatever. Excuses apart, I guess I am responsible for the impressions I make and now have to learn how to discern what subconscious messages I am sending and curb my impulses, be more controlled and less spontaneous. What a fun prospect!

Vampires
The beast is rearing its head again
In the pit of my stomach I feel
that familiar burning
I ready myself to take off running
Always one bare step ahead
Of my horrors nipping at my heels
The fear of being swallowed whole
Spurs me on - giving me another spurt of speed
I never know if this time
Will be the one where it outruns me.
Dust to dust - what really is there to fear?
That slow slide down to the belly of darkness
Oddly comforting to not fight any more
Afterall there is no defeating hopelessness
Finally in the silence
In that blessed last divine betrayal
There will be no further to fall
And at long last my soul will rest in peace.


Copyrights belong to Ambika Nair

Aftertaste
Unwittingly, even unwillingly
I have devoted my heart to memories
Of you.
I seek your face in all my new sorrows,
I fear the same ending
Of all my new hopes.
Unseen smiles reflect only you -
Ill-hidden longings to find my lost,
Mourn my un-dead love.
All the music my soul makes -
Sacrificial lambs at the feet of the man
That filled ten years of my story
With empty silences.
So many beginnings…
So meaningless unless you end
With beginnings of your own
What I never mean to start.
Only that which causes limitless joy
Can offer boundless pain -
I hear you smiling in your sleep
Your tongue wrapped around sweetness,
And rising from my charred insides
Is the bitter aftertaste of you.

Copyrights for 'Aftertaste' belong to Ambika Nair

I am dreaming of a hot week day afternoon in Chennai - the fan pointlessly stirring and unsettling the heat in the air as I lie on the freshly washed printed cotton sheets in Peetha's spare bedroom. I can almost feel the slow drag of my eyelids heavy with blissful siesta Zs that I am staving off simply to savor the anticipation. In the distance I hear a rickshaw put-putting along and I can smell the coals and the steam from the cart almost right outside my window where wrinkles are being ruthlessly ironed out of existence on a bright yellow churidar. My breath seems to be sighing out a song of absolute contentment and I fall asleep in the happy anticipation of waking up to hot tea and of vadas fished out of bubbling oil and cooling off on newspaper spread on the stone counter. There is almost nothing as enticing as that mental picture, especially as I sit at my desk in a gray cubicle looking out at snow coming down on Minneapolis. Its visions like these that get me through the loneliness, the cold, the mind-numbing lack of enthusiasm to live through another shivering, snivelling day of sub-zero depression.
Some nights I call and talk to my homie Srik who indulges me with Chennai-Tamil classes - has me in splits the entire time so much that I swear I giggle in my sleep. I love the Machis, Maamas, Sithappus that pepper the conversation. I love learning the correct inflection for saying Doddaaa :) or calling a hapless driver a Saavugirakki. I am equipped with all instances when I have to say "serippu pinjidum" - apparently any configuration of words ending in "--kattai" are worthy of this treatment. Harder to remember are the exact meanings of such marvels of the language as "Apeetu", "Dabaikeeriya", "Asalta", "Dumeel" - but all the more fascinating for its obscurity of meaning.
When I am praying with Hema, its an entirely different plane of the same language that soothes my senses and fills my heart with the golden light of God-love. I watch gazillions of Tamil movies and my untutored understanding is beginning to discern the dialects, the ways, the little mannerisms that differentiate say Madurai from Thirunalveli. In my enthusiasm for the language, I often attempt to stutter out a few sentences which are unfortunately mangled beyond all recognition by my strong mallu accent and ofcourse the unorthodox sources from which this entire knowledge base is culled.
I always think back fondly about staying at the YWCA in Egmore, walking the streets of 'Medras' with a borrowed Nokia in my sweaty fist and my I-card in its plastic sleeve hanging around my neck, hailing an auto and shocking the driver with my meager Tamil when he talks to me in his version of Hindi and tryies to fleece me of triple the fare. I remember being mortified that I was so visibly an out-of-towner, being elated when I drank a sathukudi juice and didn't spend the next day in the bathroom, being triumphant when I haggle down prices with vendors selling costume jewellery on Ranganathan street.
I have so many more little things I want to get the typical Chennai flavor of - hanging out with some cool Chennai folks at Spencer, going to a SuperStar movie at a theatre, loitering until dusk at one of Chennai's awesome beaches without having a little cousin or nephew to rescue from a dangerous tendency to throw themselves into the waves, ride pillion on a bike behind a tall,dark and handsome tamil man:) along ECR... I could go on forever. But I wont - instead I am going to go on dreaming my Chennai dreams.

Here and Now
Thursday, January 18 2007

Lethargy and shame are settling into my pores, weighing my eyelids down, making me drowsy with the inability to think about myself without regret. So much wisdom on hindsight - all the prayer in the world doesnt seem to keep me from making mistakes that clog up my senses and seep like a foul odour from my conscience. What I want, what I seek are so much more than what life is offering me right now. I can't make excuses without tripling my self-disgust, but all these dreams make it so difficult to turn away the little bits and peices that seem to be manifesting themselves in my day to day. I see now that the parts in isolation of each other don't add up to the whole. Hence the emptiness, the bitter silence of my inner judge - condemning my stupidity, my greed, my pitifulness. I can't keep grasping at straws that make my reflection in the mirror wane into a grotesque interpretation of the values I aspire to. I cannot survive more introspection if I can't dredge up more than the black refuse sticking to the walls of my mind. Too late, always too late, I see His greater wisdom at work and understand the very "cruelty" I had lamented had kept me safe from this very folly. I understand now why His approach to this thing has been all or nothing. Funny thing is, I had just been getting used to the nothing too and actually figuring out how to enjoy the anticipation. In my defense, I did think my time had come, my ship was setting sail. Premature - a tiny bit overeager and willfully blinded to consequences I knew were inevitable. Still only excuses that doesn't wash off the sorrow of having fallen down from my own estimation - again.

Here and Now:
Thursday, January 03, 2007
Saint Louis Park, MN

My heart is not broken. I am not even at an age where I can say that with feeling and not feel a blush of mortification color my neck. I have outpaced that state of perepetual emotional peaks and troughs - thank the stars! If I languish a little at the very end of my prayers and a few unbidden what-ifs run through my head - I write it down to the inability of the female mind to ever give up on its favorite fantasy. I don't know if I beleive in 'true love' anymore - I hate to sound cynical and embittered - but thats not why I dont beleive in that myth anymore. Its a bit like beleiving in Santa isnt it? - we all have to outgrow it at some time. Someone once told me a theory of chemistry, commitment and logic constituting what everyone wants to romanticize into love and I remember dismissing it as frigid and bloodless. But I begin to see the wisdom of detatchment - proof is in how we all love, lose, move on, 'love' again, marry, make babies and dismiss some of our strongest emotions as childish and fleeting. Its only my need to elevate human emotion above well thought out impulses and hormonal rushes that makes me balk at this definition of love. My own heart has managed to do this with consummate ease and as long as I dont dwell with the clarity of hindsight on what made me love the man I loved and why I took longer to get over him than him over me and why I have now managed to move on and want a new beginning, I can pretend that I loved, lost and my poor broken heart was healed in time and learned to want love again.

From Another Life:
Monday, August 06, 2003
Stillwater, OK

There's pesticides in coke now, after all the train bombs and the plague and airport authorities who scratch their palms when I want my own f-in luggage off the f-in plane. One more reason for me mum to say "But why do you want to come back to India?" I know why - because I want signposts in malayalam, I want temple bells at dusk, I want to eat bhel puri on the streets, I want silly smelly men draping rich silk around their tiny waists to get me to buy a sari, I want my ancestral 'tharavadu', I want the beaches with coconut vendors, I want to go the talkies to see a fillum. Heck, I even want the daily 'load shedding' power cuts, the slow ass internet, the mosquitoes, the cows on the road, the fisherman's bell interrupting my afternoon siesta, Amma nagging at me to get married or die a fat old spinster...anything if only it were home. I belong in third world squalor, I was born in tropical heat, I was reared with red tape and bureaucratic bullshit, I am equipped to fight for every 'equal' opportunity because I had the misfortune of being born female or of a certain caste. I dont think Amma's convinced though - damn!

From Another Life:
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Stillwater, OK

Today was an Achan day, what I mean is a Dad day. Its one of those twenty four hours when everything I say, do and listen to is speaking to me of my father. Today I search for his favorite songs on the web and try to think like he does when he hears the melody. Today I miss him a lot. Funny how some memories are stronger than others, eh? I vividly feel the deep warmth and the rub of his palm. I see the butterfly shaped nicotine stain on two of his front teeth and I can hear him sing. But as hard as I try I cant hear his voice saying my name, not at all. I like the way he wrote his 9s and 4s - such style the man had! And I can smell the combination of sandalwood incense and cigarettes on him too. It was the tobacco that killed him you know. Its been thirteen years and I can still smell him, feel him. And yet sometimes I cant even remember his face without looking at a picture. I forget that my smile is exactly like his and my toes without the pink nailpolish could almost be his - until someone tells me about it. And then I think"God! I love my toes." The man who called me "little lady" and kept a 11-year old me up until midnight trying to get me to pronounce 'succumb' right - he is so much a part of me, so much in my every breath I cannot imagine how I could forget him. But I have, many times, now-a-days almost all the time. And its not my conscience that smote me, its his legacy I have shrugged off that pinches. I am apalled that I could be so ashamed of the girl my dad proudly called his 'kochu sundari' - his little beauty. Because somehwere in me, in my being that wallows constantly in self pity, there is his heritage. And to that I have failed to be true. His words always were his to command, a small feat for a man who could often command his emotions - herculean tasks for the likes of me. I cant help wondering what he must be thinking of me, the woman I have become, the human being I am striving to be.

From Another Life:
Monday, August 04, 2003
Stillwater, OK

Dealing with self-inflicted pain is a bitch. You know the source, love it too much to do anything and feel guilty as sin for putting yourself through it. When I am hurt, this hurt and I recognize that its my own damn fault, who do I rant about? Who do I blame so I can be free? Why does it still feel like the entire cosmos is conspiring to bring me pain? The sense of betrayal is perhaps the hardest to explain, because I cant point a finger at myself and say "You let me down" can I? To change, I need motivation. And thats when I am like "i don't give a f----!" When I am ashamed and sad and crying my eyes out - I am telling myslef, its never getting better you stupid fat fool. All this pain, these tears - they will leave no permanent mark on your life. Because you wont rise from your bed, wipe your swollen eyes and make your existence over. You will feel f-in sorry for yourself, cry some more, eat a doughnut and f-in forget about it until the next time someone reminds you what a loser you are. Since I was made me a sinner why did He give me the discernment of my crime? If He gave me remorse then why not the will to reform? This is my perdition!

From Another Life:
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Stillwater, OK

One of the things I have wondered about frequently is my career choice. I have always had ambition - oodles of it. Now we must not mistake that for drive, which is an entirely different thing altogether. But ambiton - that I have. My mother says "You know you want to be at the top of the mountain. But you dont know which path to choose." I beg to differ. I know I want to be near the summit, but I dont even know which damn mountian to start climbing. I was an indifferent student all through highschool, I made above average grades because I have a good brain, but I never tapped my resources up there much, let alone put it to full good use. So like every other South Indian girl who is squeamish about blood, I found myslef in pre-engineering. Come entrance examinations, I found myself concocting long winded, implausible and purely ingenious answers to questions pertaining to quantum physics. Needless to say, I did not make it into an engineering college. I bitterly exclaimed over the injustice of being expected to study for admission!(can you imagine! Damn!) simply because my mother is a school teacher and not a bank clerk in Dubai, sheesh! From then on the journey from two toruous years at an all girls covent college to my esteemed (read third tier) University in USA - it was a saga of near misses and complete lack of decision making skills. Late applications, lack of money(see? again my poverty strikes at me!) and my innate laziness chose my future, my major, my graduation and now my master's. Do people like me succeed? Do we ever, deep inside of our hearts, take credit for where we have arrived - be it a good or bad destination? People clap me on the back and tell me what a little miracle worker I am. And I cringe and think of all the mountains of guilt I would feel if I were noble enough to feel anything of the sort. Because, the truth is galling, I am gagging on my smug acceptance of unworthy laurels. Didn't know I had it in me! And now, when I want to do justice to my career (non)-choice, when I want to do something right because I f-in want to, instead of the fortunes being kind and fluking a score,- I don't know if I can! I have never feared that anything I wanted to become would be denied me - not because I have faith in my abilities - nooo, that would be unforgivable blindness - but because the Heavens have been very consistent. I have never worked for a goal I deliberately set out for myself - not whole heartedly. Thats perhaps why I never sang proffessionally, never published a book, never lost weight.A thought occurs to me though - perhaps the reason I am riding crest after crest of favorable Divine intervention; why, despite everything I choose not to do, I always land on my feet is because I make no effort to tame the chaos. Perhaps the winds of change don't break those that sway in tandem to their erratic whims. Perhaps floating, half sunken on your back with water blocking yor hearing and your eyes squeezed tight against the sun, drifting effortlessly without control,is the only way to swim.Ciao

From Another Life:
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Stillwater, OK

I detect negative energy very well. When its around me, emanating from me, directed at me - I get this falling feeling in my mid regions, right where my ribcage ends. Some other things feel like that too - fear, anxietyand loneliness - the bone deep, silent kind. But when the feeling stays and knots into this dull sort of pain, thats when I know how much I distrust it, how much I am in awe of it.
For all the griping and the waxing eloquent over my woes, I have been forutnate. Because for the larger part I have been surrounded by positive feelings. Happily married couples, children who love their parents and even their siblings occassionally!, friends who stick by each other, colleagues who respect and like one another. Its almost scary how pink and fluffy my existence is sometimes, because I wonder if I have just shut out the bad stuff, you know selective perception.
Digressions apart, when the negativism enters my life, it always pervades my whole existence. It spills over from one facet of my being to another. Do I bring it with me?- I don't know. I don't want to, but its surprising the things you can do without trying at all, eh? And the natural successor is the fear, that this charged cloud I carry around on my head will stay, decide to become a permanent fixture. And I can grovel, I can sweeten, I can rant, I can come clean - but the cloud will melt only when IT wants to. Don't you hate powerlessness, the weak helpless feeling? I do. I hate it. Especially when the cloud settles so deep around my eyes that it distorts vision, flights of imagination, even smiles look like grimaces or worse still smirks. I take my poison into other people's days and color their moments black, its a compulsive disorder when the cloud hovers. I am going to go think determinedly happy thoughts and pray for a cloud-dispelling day.Toodles.

From Another Life:
Monday, July 28, 2003
Stillwater, OK

A comment on one if my old blogs compels me to further introspection. But last night my roomate cooked some kind of dangerous 'gongura shrimp' concoction. I should have known better than to trust them Gults :). Though the suffering now might have something to do with the fact that I ate a gargantuan portion of the stuff with ahem..unladylike haste. The point therefore is, I have discovered that introspection and diarrhoea are not good bed-fellows. Ugh- the mind picture was a little graphic there for a second.
Moving on..Had an extremely eventful weekend. With the old flame leaving, harmony once more reigned in an all female household thrown sadly off kilter by introduction of cute male 'phoren' body. Friday I barely made it home and into my favorite pair of corduroys before I had to leave for the farewell party of three of our departing colleagues. We drove out to my boss's immaculate home and pigged out on home-made guacamole and lime chips. A couple of tall glasses of Vodka and orange juice and an enlightening session on blogging around the kitchen sink later, your's truly made her excuses. Ah! the travails of a busy, popular and highly sought-after woman. Once home it was a mad rush to strip off laid back American persona and slip into my 'sophisticated Mallu' one. Rushed off to friend's house replete in new short kurta and armloads of sliver bangles. Gorged on so much good Indian food, I blush to elaborate. Watched lame mallu tape of the so-called funnies (read NOT!) and was bored witless by unappreciative Mellu men who kept saying "adi poli" until I wanted to 'jemb outto the windoe'!!! :)
The highlight of the evening was the exemplary female company - wonderful wonderful girls!- and ofcourse the luxury of letting the musical notes of my mother tongue wash over my telugu-saturated senses. And on sunday I spent a whopping thrity dollars on a dress for my birthday, which is on friday for all of you who want to make me feel like I have friends and am not a pathetic loser.
Anyways..roomie came back from India last night, doing her famous imitation of Santa. She had so much stuff for everyone,that sweet generous girl!(it also helps to have money I guess, but then everyone who has money is not inclined to spend it on others, eh what?). Its wonderful to have her home, our little family is complete again! Before I become an insufferable mush monster I will bid my fair friends adieu!

From Another Life:
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Stillwater, OK

I woke up this morning feeling a bit more like myself- gritty eyes - check, head ache - check, pissed off lazy ass attitude - check..ok I am almost all back! I feel like the real me - the grouchy, mean, basically unhappy me - had gone on vacation and this silly school-girl type had taken over my body for a few days there. I was pea-brained and giggly and did incredibly demented things like painstakingly put *shudder* pink nailpolish on and then promptly take it off - a couple of times a day. Oh! the shame of it...but it was cathartic in a way...I was purging my inner 'princess'...never to return I hope.
Sometimes I feel like I was shelled to smithereens and there's parts of me strewn all over. There's a part of me that exults in a new pair of shoes and a good haircut. A part of me that reads the Ayn Rand and Paulo Coelho and the unabridged works of Shakespeare and wants to write to newspapers about the crimes of religious intolerance. A part of me that loves to party and dance in abandon all night. A part of me that prays every morning and has maintained her thursday 'vrath' for over twelve years. A part of me that is still so in love with my first boyfriend. A part of me that is most probably getting engaged this December to mama's choice of good Nair boy. So many parts of me, but none of them match, none fit together - like a bad jigsaw. A bit like Humpty Dumpty, except I dont think I was ever a nice complete whole. Every time a new facet of my existence branched out, it just grew - independent of the rest of me, shunning the other parts.
Perhaps the most galling thing about pain - my personal variety - is its ability to rob me of all powers of expression. I fall back on the trite, the obvious, the viciously unsatisfying. The frustration, the fear of mediocracy builds with every paltry word that fails to scoop in it my great deluge of unprovoked, irrevocable emotion. Listen to me now. Ugh. I cannot inflict any more of this demented rantingon you poor souls. Adios!

From Another Life:
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Stillwater, OK

So am having a semi-productive day at work. Motivation to finish a three year old annual report that no-one in his right mind would give two figs about is real hard when you are juggling three men, see? But I plough on.You know - I know I sound shallow and flighty. All I have been able to write about in daaaays is boys and hairdos. My thoughts have stopped seeping beneath the surface. I am turning into this superficial git and I have no intergrity or discretion because all the flippin little non-thoughts running through my big empty head is out here in blogworld for people to overlook. Damn.I rarely self-analyse to my satisfaction. Something innately honest about me makes self-analysis a very unpleasant process. I should stop now, but while I am gut-spilling, I might as well confess that I am not happy with me to day. uhuh. Nosirreee. I have been relentlessly blonde and I have no excuse. Ohhhh, I hate myself.Gotta run and finish the flippin report before I lose my job as well (considering I have no self-esteem left). Waaaah!

From Another Life:
Friday, July 18, 2003
Stillwater, OK

Its Friday people! It is the temporary end to torture - of one kind atleast. I am a fulfilled woman - I have a movie to watch tonight, sexy Italian Shoes to buy at $19.99!!!!! and an office picnic to go to on Sunday where I will spend an entire day of my precious weekend with the same people I spent the week hiding from in my gray cell- uh! cubicle. Damn but I am a happening sort of girl. This weekend I am going to make my lecherous co-worker supremely happy in my three year old bathing suit, but some things just cant be helped. I mean you cant expect an emancipated young woman like me to swelter in 100 degree weather and not take a dip in a large man-made lake with floating dead fish in it and gunk that feels suspiciously like a colicky baby's diaper under my feet now do you? Mein samjhungi mein gange naha aai. See? I am in touch with my roots! And after the first three glasses of sangria, who the hell cares what I am swimming in, right?ciao then amigos!

2 hours later:
Okay, so its a loooong friday. What do you want me to do about it? Huh? Freaking sunday party seems far far away, like eons away, like another galactic timezone - damn. I knew it wouldn't be long before the time warp thing would start catching up with me. Inspiration can't be racist can it? I mean if you are Indian why is it that people assume the only shit you can write bashes the arranged marriage system or talks about some forbidden kamasutra-esque smut? How about like the nice stories huh? Doesn't anybody want to read them anymore? How about you ask a girl what she's all about and f'ng listen when she's talking to you. And pull your head out of your ass so you dont f-ng say "So....India huh. That sure is far aways from here". No kidding morons - somebody got an A in their third grade geography class. Damn.

From Another Life:
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Stillwater, OK

Yeehaw! I love blogging. Some poor demented soul had the decency to reply to a mail I sent him. Haha! he is now snared. I am not going to pretend that the only happy thought I have had all day was not "Somebody actually likes mailing me!"Sheesh - I am not as pathetic as I sound. I do have friends, no really I do. Its just that they dont think like me, talk like me. Its rather depressing that the real me is someone I am working hard to keep under wraps - even...no especially with my closest friends. I fear that these people whom I care about, whom I have instituted willy-nilly into my make-shift family will take one look at the real me and wrinkle up their noses and hold thier thumb and forefinger to their foreheads - in a resounding capital L! Its hard belonging to a group of awesome people who like you because they dont really know what dirty, lazy-ass worthless and completely uninteresting thoughts cross your mind half the time. Makes me want to go pierce my tongue or something you know - prove their worst fears right. Isn't it funny the cartwheels and jumping through hoops you will do to avoid loneliness - even if it means the true you is alone anyway, pouring forth in emails and blogs that noone cares about.Okay I have now thoroughly depressed myself and am going to go the bathroom and wipe my nose.adios amigos