Waking Sleeping beauty or Sleeping Monster

I could talk about so many things... where do I begin.... I'll start with a confession, I hate being woken up before I've finished my quota of sleep.... I turn into Mr Hyde....The Hulk, Voldemort, and a number of other dudes with major anger issues rolled into one... I sting the poor soul brave/stupid enough to wake me up. It is a terrible, terrible habit, and the worst part of it is that more often than not, I don't remember much of the bad behaviour when I do regain consciousness aka when I wake up properly.

In an ideal world, this could be a theme straight out of the script of a bone tickling yet thrilling sitcom about a normal superhuman who turns into a monstrous supervillain whenever her peaceful slumber is untimely interrupted. However, it is not an ideal world, or I would surely have come out of these situations with nary a scratch. But, the rule of the jungle says that if you roar, there will always be a roar back (no one really said that, I just made it up to look cool and wise).

I am sure that there are those of you out there who share my affliction. Well here's my question to you wise beings. How do you deal with waking up on the wrong side of the bed daily? Is there a formula to counter the ill humour which always accompanies the first couple of minutes after I wake up? I send this question out into the void and eagerly await sage words of wisdom.

I could write about this and I could write about that.... but really I break out in hives when I think of writing about my life. You see I lead a very dull life and have done absolutely nothing...

I turned 28 last week and was forced to see my life as it is now, and it certainly wasn't thrilling.... I realised that I have been spending the past couple of years unemployed and dressed in highly comfortable yet highly ugly clothes... Yes, realising that sweatpants are not really the epitome of glamour was quite a shock.

The thing is, I am unemployed for a reason, but the fact that I didn't have to get up in the morning or follow any routine really made me sloppy. This is something that I should have avoided. So, after that awful moment of looking in the mirror to find my dumpy, sweatpant clad self, I decided to dress up everyday, even if I didn't go out.

In that vein, I have dressed up everyday, certainly not haute couture but definitely more suitable than baggy old clothes. The reason that I am writing this is because I am certain that there are many out there who have let themselves go a bit. I would just like to say that despite this dull attempt at introspection, I empathize and hope that you'll find purpose like I have.  

Dear Reader, sometimes during the day, I find myself in the grip of a sadness....is it even sadness, I wonder? It is like that silence that can only be heard in the middle of the night.... that perfect silence that can make one even hear the thoughts that run in one's head at a zillion miles an hour....

I have come to realise that I actually crave this disjointed and alienating sadness....... Perhaps, if I let myself feel.... I would feel too much...That I would crave to be loved and wanted too much... It is not that I'm hated exactly, but I realised a long time ago that people don't like me much, even when I try hard to be liked.......

I know that you're thinking that I probably need to go see a psychiatrist, I have long thought so. However there are circumstances that have often made me rethink. You see I live next door to an asylum for the mentally infirm. I see them roaming around in the gardens subdued and becalmed due to the medicines they are on, and it makes me think about my own inner turbulence.

From my high vantage point of the neighbouring apartment building, it seems safe to observe people going through extraordinary calm lives, even if they do so under the influence of strong medication. I frequently find myself actually thinking that turbulence, fury, anguish and constant melancholy are preferable to the becalmed numbness, these medicines seem to bring on. Perhaps, I'm wrong in thinking thus, however I have decided that on reflection I prefer my peculiar kind of insanity to mundane sanity.

Dear Reader, will it surprise you if I told you that I have recently become addicted to going to the Gym?However, I loathe this particular addiction, unlike my addiction to books. I suppose that after going on and on about the beauty of nature and the outdoors, you are sure to have deduced that I love the outdoors. However, it is rather difficult for anyone to go for a nice run when it is pouring, courtesy the 'Great Indian Monsoon'.

I crave the sense of normalcy of working-out on a regular basis. I really like running and I find that it lends coherence to my otherwise turbulent inner dialogue. I also like the fresh air and sense of achievement that only a nice long run can provide.

I must admit, that I do find these things whilst working out in a gym . However, at the risk of courting the wrath of all you serious gym aficionados..... I confess that I hate running on a treadmill. I feel absolutely no sense of achievement.

In a philosophical sense, I must explain that my love for running stems from my desire to lead a life full of movement. I want to go further than everyone I know, explore new avenues as opposed to doing all the work, going through major exertions yet staying put; quite akin to running on a treadmill; where you run but don't go anywhere.

So, I confess that despite the wonderfully plush surroundings and swanky equipment, the gym still hasn't managed to lure me away from the siren call of the asphalt on the open road.

Of Euphoria, Parikrama, Strings and Junoon......

Dear Reader, today I stumbled across a song that I used to really love when I was in school....an indie rock song by a band called Euphoria....Oh how I loved Euphoria... I remember that I gravitated to all these songs with the fusion beat.....I think that indie songs especially with a folksy-rock fusion beat is especially IN right now but, Euphoria was seriously something.


I prefer hard rock and old school rock and roll when it comes to english music but when it comes to hindi music I really like folksy-pop-rock... I suppose that it might even be an oxymoron but who cares. I remember spending countless evenings listening to Euphoria, Parikrama, Indian Ocean, Advaita, Junkyard Groove etc and even those amazing Pakistani bands.... Strings, Junoon, Jal, Fuzon and Zeest....

I love the fact that today all I have to do is tune into MTV Indies/ Coke studio/ Sound Treck/ The Dewarists/ Youtube  and listen to Papon, Monica Dogra, Swarathma or even Bangla Rock, but I do find myself longing for those days of innocence when one waited for a Euphoria album or an Indian Ocean/ Parikrama Concert and felt really cool to even know about Indian Rock.. :)


For those of you who are Indian/ Pakistani and grew up in the subcontinent during the 90's and early 00's I am sure that you know what I'm feeling nostalgic about. It was an experience that I am sure is up there with watching shows like Hip Hip Hurray...... kids now-a-days don't know what they've missed do they?

Ah..'Strings' I was crazy about this band! :)

In which I muse about the importance of 'Readers' for 'Writers'

Dear Reader, life is an interesting journey full of ups and downs....I have always felt the need to write about the interesting, mundane and sometimes bizarre turns that this journey takes. Things like the feeling of being loved by some, hated by others, successes and failures, flights and crashes and so on.

Unfortunately, my muse has been most uncooperative during the past couple of months and also certain personal roadblocks have proved to be distractions that have prevented me from writing this blog. I know and realise that I have a responsibility to myself as a blogger to maintain a steady flow of posts. With this in mind,  I have resolved to post regularly from now on, in order to always be in a position to write and to ward of writers block.

I know that most of my posts might not be interesting or useful. But are writers ever really fun, or even that interesting for anyone? Except of course for those select few called 'Readers'. I firmly believe that, it is our readers who make us identify ourselves as writers.

And so for all my noble and patient readers out there..... I will try my level best to be a good writer and communicate more through this blog. Until the next post.....

True faces, different selfs and the madman with the looking glass....

Dear Reader, sometimes there are days when I go on thinking and thinking, musing about the meaning of life and the life that I lead, and the kind relationships that I have with people. I wish I was dynamic and that people would take me seriously.

I suppose when one is the sort to find humour in the oddest of situations, it is hard to be taken seriously by people in general. But, being a flaky bird with grandiose pretensions to being a ' Brainy one', can generally be a pain for one's family members. I've only recently realised that my parents are saints and the amount of patience it takes to deal with an annoying know it all.

A couple of years ago I saw this interesting movie about journeys and self discovery...One of the characters in the movie was a madman who used to run around the town square with a mirror urging the people to peer in and 'see' themselves. It is only now that I've realised that he really meant ' peering into the mirror and seeing our inner selves'; who and what we really are.

The past couple of months have acted the part of the madman with the mirror in my life and have brought out the hitherto hidden aspects of my self. I never realised the extent of my patience and strength. I have always thought that  I wanted momentum from life, and here I am dealing with stillness in a most surprising manner.

Perhaps, all of us have times in our lives when we peer into the looking glass and find a stranger who looks just like us staring back. Honestly, dear reader, it was quite startling when that happened to me. But now, I find myself getting used to looking at the new me. I know, that right now it is extremely difficult for the people around me to take me seriously, but I'm sure that there will be a time when someone will actually listen to me and hear the true meaning behind my words. Until then, I will bide my time and venture to discover my true face in the mirror; or perhaps I should just be the madwoman running about with the looking glass?    

HOME AND THE WORLD: When misogyny from within one's family, rather than the outside world forces to choke the life out of the gutsy feminist.

Dear Reader, it is not easy being a woman. It is even more difficult to be a young woman who is not a significant contributor to the financial standing in one's family...It is also excruciatingly painful to have brilliant liberal and supportive parents but a vile and misogynistic extended family.

My parents have always encouraged me to think for myself and be honest in my dealings with others, yet I ask you Dear Reader, is it really possible to be honest when social conventions force us to be nice to those who clearly hate us and make us miserable?

 In India, family and family values are considered paramount. In a culture that places huge importance in the collective that is the 'Great Indian Extended Family', it is hard to ignore family members who have the capacity to leach every single drop of joy from your body with derisive glances and cutting words. As a 'well brought up young woman' one is expected to show every modicum of civility to them as 'the parent's honour depends upon it'.

It is a frustrating conundrum Dear Reader, why is having a vagina in the 'Great Indian Bourgeois Family' an open invitation to disapproval, constant criticism about behaviour / cooking skills / lifestyle / body / opinions etc? I will probably be embarrassed when I read this post in future, but I have a confession...I know what it is like to feel as low as it is humanly possible. In a culture where a woman's opinions have no weightage or are considered insignificant, I feel doubly frustrated. As hosts, we are taught to be gracious, but being insulted by various family members constantly in front of one's parents as well as behind the scene is excruciating at so many different levels.

As a highly educated feminist, one can't help but chafe under the restrictions, good manners and certain unavoidable circumstances puts one under. Yet, there is another being that lives within this highly educated feminist; the daughter, who feels guilty at causing pain to the said brilliant, liberal and supportive parents who place a lot of store into good manners. By indulging in impulsive, reactionary and insulting put downs that the horrid relatives deserve, I  would only expose my parents to ridicule from their siblings/in laws and lead to further embarrassment. Thus, sadly, in this struggle, the highly educated feminist loses to the daughter.

However, it is important that I share my realisation with you my Dear Reader, cynical though it may seem.... The road to freedom, equality and respect it is still an extremely daunting and difficult one, when our own kin stand in the way, presenting us with debilitating psychological hurdles, that are perhaps tougher than breaking down the walls that society places in front of all of us dedicated to the feminist cause. 

Oh Calcutta......Soul city..... City of joy....how I love thee!

New Market

Dear Reader, Kolkata on the surface is a dirty, slightly dilapidated, overcrowded city, but it has SOUL...and what a luminous soul it is....One that has survived centuries of the Raj, Riots and the languid indolence of the 'Bhadralok'; the bourgeois snobs, who live their lives entirely disconnected with society......

The heat and humidity are nearly unbearable, to even one such as yours truly, so used to the dusty and torrid embrace of the Delhi summers.Yet Dear Reader, Kolkata still manages to capture you. I love this city. My love affair with this metropolis began at the age of six, when I first came here for a visit. I was one of those kids who would tag along with uncles and aunts and end up visiting places. On that occasion, I tagged along with my uncle, my mother's younger brother who was on his way to the city. Back then she was Calcutta and one of my most poignant childhood memories is crossing in front of the Victoria Memorial at 5 am. The first rays of the sun turned the marble monument into gold, a sight, not many have the privilege of seeing. I remember, my indulgent uncle made the cabbie stop for a while right in front of the gate and in hindsight probably ran up the cab fare to more than it should have been. That was the moment I fell in love with Calcutta.

The Victoria Memorial

Imagine the sight Dear Reader, a looming white marble monument suddenly appearing out of the January mist, and then catching fire and turning into molten gold as the rising sunlight caressed it's white and pristine beauty. For my six year old self  it was an enchanted fairy castle which had appeared out of the mist by magic. I remember how my uncle entertained me and the cabbie with tall tales of fairy princesses, kings, queens, wizards and chariots of fire that he swore revealed the castle's true golden hue as they circled it... It is one of my most treasured memories; we returned that evening and we went around the monument in a horse drawn phaeton. You can well imagine Dear Reader, how special that day was, I truly felt like a princess.

Alas, I am not six anymore, and Calcutta is now Kolkata,  however, I have still managed to retain my impression of the city...A city of princes and paupers...a city of dreams mired in bleak reality. It is mystifying how Calcutta has managed to retain it's unique verve through the ages.

Park Street

One of my favourite places in the city, Park Street stands sentinel to nearly 300 years of history and Calcutta's existence. It is like a faded, unwashed cousin of the gorgeous Regent Street in London, littered with charming book shops and patisseries choc-a-block with government and corporate offices; and yet, beneath all the grime and surprising vines and creepers, you can spy the marble cherubs, the muses and the griffins. The beautiful detail work on the columns and the topmost façades of the buildings, reveal the regal beauty of the architecture of  a bygone era.    

The Standard Life Assurance Building

This Dear Reader, is Calcutta's soul, resilient and charming, like that beautiful and graceful old lady whose features make it apparent of her youthful beauty that refused to fade beneath the wrinkles brought on by age. She is gracious and gentle, commanding respect and full of stories and tales of the past, yet still, her relevance and presence provides a balm to the chaotic 21st century nomad.

The General Post Office Building

in which I look into the mirror only to find a stranger look back...

Dear Reader, have you ever watched a show on the telly that everyone is just raving about and found that you absolutely hate it? Well, I have recently been exposed to a show that made me actually ask myself some really awkward questions... Is it that I've changed so much fundamentally that I find certain things (that I might have enjoyed even two years ago) vacuous and idiotic....or was I the one who was vacuous and idiotic?

As I approach another birthday, one that is going to take me from one part of my twenties into another; I find myself looking in the mirror at someone really different from the person who stared back at me during my college years. I  find the girl looking back at me slightly alarming....not the looks really, it is just the eyes, specifically the expression. It used to be animated and bright but now it is guarded and angry..

There have been times in my life when I've looked into the mirror to find a new me looking back. The last time this happened, was in my teens when I looked in expecting the child, to only find the innocence curiously blink back and vanish.

They say that our eyes are the mirrors to our soul. I don't know if that's true, however I do know that the mirror never lies. If one really looks at oneself....really looks, one can always find the truth within oneself. I found a peculiar emptiness and darkness that I have always associated with being an adult. I find myself scared and worried for the child that still lurks within. You see, I tenaciously held on to remnants of my  childhood, yet now I find it slipping away through my fingers. It's ephemeral presence seems to be gradually receding, replaced by this  heavy permanence of being all grown up.

Perhaps, it was meant to be, still, it makes me wonder at myriad faces of life and it's 'ever constant changefulness'. I hope this post with it's incredibly philosophical content doesn't bore you much dear reader...like most writers I wish daily, that every sentence that I write or speak is frightfully witty and intelligent; however if I do come across as idiotic and boring forgive me... I am after all only human and promise to try and write a more entertaining post next time....