Home

There are times like these that the influx of all that needs to be put down on paper itself hinders the flow of words. There is then no train of thoughts, but an explosion of selfsame conclusions - some formed, some unformed, some stillborn, some deformed - elastic in style - the mumbo jumbo of a clogged mind.

And yet the love for writing brings me here. I yearn to write till my nib bleeds, my fingers ache, my mind is cured - till I can hear no more of the senseless din - till my chaos begins to make sense, take shape and bring to me a sense of accomplishment that only few care for. Of all those I have loved, its writing that's never failed me. May be because I never stopped loving it. I am aware though that even as I fill this canvas with words, I am hardly saying anything. May be thats the idea. May be I am not ready yet.

I love you my blog, my haven, my refuge, my holiday, my work, my shelter, my sanctuary, my burrow, my faithful home!

curled

It looks like a shoddy piece of patchwork, my life. In some other time I would have found beauty in any miscellany. Right now I just wanna lie curled up in my bed and close my eyes. I have forgotten to write poetry. Something I so enjoyed. I no more have the courage or the hope for it. I wish to go away somewhere far, too far from even myself. But pity we can't leave our past behind. And then, I am tired before I even begin to chart my course. Because I know the going away will do nothing.

There is so much noise it makes me cringe. It's making me want to hurl things against the wall - if only to seek that split second silence right after.

Blank stare

Considering what all is happening around me, I must not be doing bad if I have finally started reading Shakespeare. I don't know if I hold the books or they hold me. We get along well, that's all.

I have become so dextrous in arranging what should bother me and when that pain itself has lost its meaning. I have lost, I feel, the impulse that makes us grieve or pine. I know so much of myself now that even as 'answers' lay bare in front of me I no longer even want to get up and have a look. I am sure more lies ahead, more of me, more of those 'fine lines' that I so often talk about. But for now even this seems enough.

Last night, on my way from Connaught Place, I realized how this dexterity of the mind, this 'awareness', this vigilance rather - kills the spirit of spontaneity. Of making mistakes, seeking apology and keep going. But who can I allow myself to be that with?

I don't know if I make any sense to anyone reading this. I had better go and work.

This one is me.

All my life I have lived to love someone. 'Worship' I learned to call it. Struggling to worship a God that never was, praying that he exists. Him with a capital H. Even though I have been never been religious, in this regard I was the unrivaled, the alpha devotee. Or at least wanted to be. My savior he was to be. My 'tree' I would call him metaphorically. An abundant, grand, grandiose tree, in all its wooden splendor and life, to cover my whole being like a divine umbrella. A living monument of man, under which I wanted to simply exist, 'pick flowers', if you like. Yearning to be a nobody in comparison. Pining to become a speck as he would reign over me. Me the kingdom, he the King; me the devotee he the God, me a mere abstraction, he the very creation! And nothing less would satisfy me. Such brazen hunger for worship did not hurt my ego in the slightest. It did not because in my mind he knew it was I who needed to coronate him for myself! Oh! How important that he should not care! He would have known it was my need and may be nothing more. It was this understanding that was to mark our love. Alas, it never happened. And thank god it never happened.

Adding flavor to my delusion, I always had this beautiful imagery of a little girl sitting pretty on green grass, under that tree, her flower-printed pinafore and a little brooch in place. She sits unmindful of the world, of her own existence, save that the tree is her home and as long as she is under it no harm could befall her. I never knew what she feared, but she would keep plucking at the lush green grass near her knees and now and then fiddle with her basket. Her face had calm contentment writ all over it. This girl was me.

Never did I pay heed that this girl had no books by her side. Books that  I so love to read. She wanted nothing from life except to barely exist under the shadow of the man-tree, all she wanted was to feel safe even as no eminent danger was in sight. This safety was her idyll, her ultimate salvation. She had no ink, no pen, no paper. You see, she needs nothing from him! Just his presence around, as if to co-exist in his time was the reason she had taken birth.

All wrong!

Today I see the horror of such a dream. I dread what would happen to her if she were trapped in such condescending paradise. What good is the man-tree except for his banal presence? Doesn't she realize that it's her books, her pen and her paper that make up her life and have been her solace all these years? Doesn't she know the rest can be built and destroyed only to fall like a pack of cards and that all that really happens happens only in our minds?! Why have I been so afraid of being a writer? Afraid of being a 'failure' even before I learned to spell the word? Deep down I have always known I loved writing, but deeper still was buried my reluctance to accept it. The enormity of the thought, the responsibility of calling oneself a 'writer', added to it my ruthless criticism of myself stopped me short. Not only did it play a hindrance, it actually made me hand wave my own belief in myself.

The thing is I have always been afraid to fail. So much so that I didn't even want to acknowledge to myself that I have a dream. To want to see my name on the spine of a book - and even more than the name - I have always wanted to express . To me there exists no word more beautiful than the word 'write' and yet I have been so stingy with saying it out aloud. I still believe one has to earn whatever one calls oneself. Nothing is ever ours unless we earn it with our sweat. (I feel even less of a lawyer, than my degrees will have you believe). I didn't allow myself the chance. To accept that this was what I do and it is okay even if I am not able to prove it! My life is not being lived on a stage. If there was anyone I loved more, wanted to protect more, wrap my arms around - it is me. If there is anyone in whose stretched palm I would like to place something beautiful and for life - it would be a pen and that hand would be mine.

As I write this, I want to close the curtain on the imagery I have nurtured for as long as I can remember. I am not the kind you'd find plucking grass, sitting pretty and under a tree all her life. Maybe I was never that girl, maybe I no longer want to be.

Safe

Is my time to go come? Why do I have this chilling feeling. As if the realization that I do not belong here is complete now. That my time here is up and every single day spent in this place is taking me farther away from where I am supposed to be.

Last night I slept thinking of the 'cusp' of life. Thinking of how deeply I recognize it, and as an afterthought - how I wish sometimes I would let some things go unobserved.

Holed up in my room all day, it is an effort to go out, to face the world (no, not out of any shame, but of sheer boredom and denial). All peace, all of me, all of who I am is here, right here in me. And when I do think of going out, surprisingly the world outside as I imagine is not this. As if I already believed I had left.

I am writing voraciously these days, sometimes on paper, sometimes in my head. Mostly it's the head. I'm writing as I make my tea; I'm writing in the shower as I undress, and writing still when I pat me dry. Hurrying to return to my desk and type. But all this 'writing' is sporadic, of course. Scattered everywhere. There is no method, no deadline, no course it takes - words coming together in bits and pieces - in agreement with what I want to say; making me feel so safe.

to be continued..

But then, I want to immerse, and you might want to breathe still. I want to fly and you might wish to never part with your earth.. I want to look down deep into your eyes and you don't get it.. my biggest fears are the most useless. Pragmatism bores me.

I am complete.

The thing is that you have to try. You have to try and be the best of who you are. Take responsibility; summon all courage no matter how scared you are; if promised anything, even in passing, mean it, keep it.

"And then, I am there for you. I have really grown to like you..almost as if I were severed from you and could see you. Right there."

The duality must give in now. Converge. :)

Swollen eyes

Last night I slept crying. Thinking how what when where. Thinking how all my life I have been valuing the wrong people perhaps, running after those who weren't there. Trying to make peace with nothingness even as I had everything. Each time something like this happens, my faith in me gets shaken, I am ambushed by fears and reluctance. My sister, living loveliness that she is, tells me to be realistic. "There'll be days like this", she also says. And she says so much more. I listen. 

Nothing is clear, the haze is clear.

I leave for Goa today. Not a speck of smile.

I will return having newly turned 25.

That's all, folks.

merit. yay!

I got my provisional exam result for LLM a few days back. To my surprise I scored a neat Merit in all subjects barring one. I am happy the dissertations have been all given merit and even some other papers where I wasn't sure I had performed well. Though marks are no hallmark of excellence to me, there is no reason why one must not be happy at having scored well. So yeah, I am happy with my performance though I also know I could have done heaps better - might have still scored the same - but still could have learned more had I put in more effort and not wasted time in everyday things.

-----

I will be travelling much the next few days. I will try to post from these places but I cannot promise. I don't even know if I will carry the laptop.

-----

The silence continues even as I speak. But I continue to make the hopeless effort by coming to the blog and posting. Some rituals must be observed.. even if for no reason at all.

lonely!

Now I know why people turn to music. Since the time I have returned, I am feeling more lonely than ever. That's strange because it's lonely thats happening - not missing, not wishing, not longing. It could also be the fact that i don't realize i'm missing - from which there is no running away. I have a nice room which opens up into the balcony, my laptop, my books, my stuff and I do have my work too. There is much to be done which I am doing - but when its not work, there is nothing else. Suddenly there is so much time on my hands and nothing much to do. Time difference should have taken away 5 hours or so. Not really.

I have more energy that I can possibly put to use. But there's simply no one around. And so, to keep sane i'm turning to music and loud music at that, to beat the loneliness.

I SOOOOOOOOO wanna get drunk tonight!

Loud writing

Delhi it is. The confusion and chaos outside seems minuscule when compared to that inside. Love and longing have taken a backseat. It is work that is on my mind. A lot of deadlines are hovering and I am trying to meet them all. My tickets for Palampur and Goa are done and I am looking forward to both the places and the occasions. Writing still comes out sparingly, perhaps because the same is with reading. A few more days and I will start going out daily. That should add some flavor to my book-less world.

Yesterday I was about to buy Narcopolis from Kashmiri Gate metro station on my way back home. Though the covers looked interesting but the prologue gave it away for me. It says in not so many words, that, "Bombay.... is the hero or heroine of this story". I have nothing against Bombay yet the place tires me. I have been there once and if possible would never want to go back again. I know it is a place that consumes you, makes you its own as you live there longer, the rubbing shoulders becomes a way of life and the lights at the glittering malls and the freedom that one can feel there is addictive. Yet, I have a mental block when it comes to Bombay. Except for the name I don't like much else and yes, I may have the naiveté of someone who has only known Delhi to be her home (and quite recently a bit of London). So well, I don't want to read of Bombay. Somewhat similarly I gave up reading Shantaram even as the plot had begin to thicken; the way I never liked Slumdog Millionaire despite the hoopla. My disenchantment with the city that never sleeps is illogical but firm. Ironically, one exception that I can think of is the very movie Bombay that I loved as a kid. As a child it did scare the wits out of me - coz like any other kid that age I had a fear of being lost in a crowd, parting from my family forever and never getting to see them again. But then, the movie had not much to do with Bombay as a city. I would like this to change. I don't like being prejudiced this way, this illogic mars my personal glee - that of being flexible in many other things. But who am I kidding, I enjoy not liking Bombay and bask in my ignorance of it. ;)

My room is nice and interesting now, a lot needs to be bought - new curtains, a cupboard, new chair, and most importantly, a book shelf. I also need a rug and a place to hide the innumerable stuff toys that hog most of the space in my favorite cupboard. WHY do people gift stuff toys to you if you are a girl?! I won't deny I must have enjoyed getting them as gifts at one point of time, now all they do is take up a lot of space which I would rather fill up with books and other collectibles. The trouble with stuff toys is that they are totally useless, need dedicated space in the shelf and when you are about to dump them - you just can't help but recall who gifted which teddy bear on which birthday, when you were oh-so-young and there goes your determination; the teddy bears soon find their way back to the cupboard. Stuffed rascals.

I am doing a lot of catching up on news these days. Needless to say, last 3 months I hardly read a newspaper back to back. It was only on the ipad that I used to log in for some news. It is the eds and the op-eds that I am reading now, plan on subscribing to the Hindu, Tehelka and Frontline again. I also want to send my two/three dissertations to some law journals, so I am on a look out for some human rights journal calling for papers.

That's all for now. Will keep you posted, now that I have the time.

the year that was

I will land in Delhi tomorrow. The year has come to an end and I will be back. There isn't a farewell speech to hand in.. but there is much that I feel tonight. I don't think i can put it all into words just now. A lot needs to be done on the work front - the reason I was at LSE and that makes me happy. I am sure Delhi has answers to a lot of mysteries of the past year. I feel I am going home to Panther too even as I know he isn't there. Knowing is such an overrated phenomenon, one that hardly makes a difference. You just continue to feel what you feel. :)

a dog or two

My Life

i will be free..truly free

i will work, earn for myself, get a dog or two (and even though life kinda ends then and there but i have some other chut-put dreams), get lots of green plants, decorate my home my way.. have BIG windows and many cushions and nice curtains.

cook interesting food.. healthy meals cooked in olive oil, less on masala high on taste

crisp salads

go to a gym, have my beautiful books showcased in sexy book shelf which i will buy one day with my own money

simple living high thinking

ek theek thaak si car .. xing type. hola! i already have it.

silk ke dupatte on semi silk ka kurta. :D gee

a rap

Once again the need to be honest that brings me here. I come, I try. Befallen, I crawl back to the confines of my mind. But there is much I must accept now and stop fooling my self. Just stop, stand, and do what is right.. for once be sure and be happy to declare so. Enough of observing, enough of enjoying the thrill of how far one can go. I am not that old to be talking of times gone by as having had some immense impact on me. Whatever has happened in my life so far is also in my present - affecting me even now. I know one day in future it won't be important all of it. But I just have today to live. I must accept myself. Something's gotta give.

Accept yourself.

things..

Everything is turning around. People, places. What I thought is not. What I didn't is. How wrong we can be as judges. How wrong when subsequently patting our backs. The feeling when you realize you have only returned to where you were. I know I keep saying but im not saying much. What stops me? I have gotten so used to keeping things to myself that I wonder if I have forgotten how it is like to be honest. This post is just about trying hard in that direction. Pardon the stilted writing.

I am in Dubai now. Bid adieu to London a day back. In the plane as the plane was about to take off, I said to myself, 'take care, london'. It was more about my time there, hope it all bears fruit and I am able to do some good work. I am happy to be here, I think my sister needed me bad. Apart from that I am at home all day as she and her husband go to work from 7 to 7 everyday. Lots to think, read, watch and relax. Tomorrow I plan to go out, hail a cab and buy some essentials. 

I cleared another round of fellowship I had applied for and was interviewed via skype. The results are not out yet. Nothing is for certain. Tomorrow onwards I apply more vigorously. Also got an internship offer from an NGO in London - too late.

I guess thats all for now. Will keep you posted. Hope to be back soon. Miss you.

i go on

I have been writing for long in my mind. Somehow shying away from coming to the blog. Perhaps it is the wait again, or is it that I have lost the drive. I know what wonders writing does to me, even then. I feel whatever I would write, I would not be honest - so I defer writing all together. I want to be honest, I want to write like before, and yet something stops me. My time in London is coming to an end. I do not have a job; I am waiting for a few replies but that is about all. I haven't tried much anyway.

Staying for long in the room has made me feel shy of outside. Last night I did make all effort and went to Leicester Square - the same streets that oozed with spirit, city-lights and of crazy folk at one time - now all seemed quiet. And no it was not just because it was a Monday, it was like it had always been. But no more was I enchanted, no more did the lights and the streets and the people held my attention. I longed to return and return I did, only to drift off to sleep while a couple of friends watched Ek The Tiger on my laptop.

In my dream I was not sure about some fellowship, whether or not I had been accepted. People after people were going, boarding a train and starting off. I was standing there in wait - someone had to come and tell me I was to board! How could I just board by myself! Everyone had a certificate or a receipt to show they were accepted and they were happy, including a tall, broad, nice natured American gentleman. What about me?

I hesitate calling home. May be I just wanna show them a success story. So, I wait. In a couple of days I will be shifting places again and would stay here in London for a few more weeks after which I might or might to go to Dubai and then to Delhi. I wish to see my sister. It would be a pity if I returned and did not meet her. It is such a small life, must meet people we love.

I will be leaving for the library in a while. Recharged my seasoned ticket yesterday, so travelling shan't cost must. Working from home has never worked for me. I need an office space. I miss my sisters office where I used to set up a corner for me. My 'work' day meant writing a few acrostics, doing random research, helping her out and sometimes meet a friend or two. Whenever I wasn't interning or didn't have college in the morning I used to go to office with her. That's what I need now. So library it is.

I now I am rumbling and I don't know why. But I need it. I need it bad. It is reassuring, writing here. Even nonsense.

taming the fingers

It is one of those times when I can't contain my self. Have been having a conversation with my sister (in my own mind) since last night, but haven't been able to really talk to her. Parents flying to Dubai today to visit other sis. I am kinda liking it. They'd meet her, see around UAE and have a work-free vacation, God knows they never tire. 

Coming back to me - I can't contain myself.. or the excitement. Have thought a lot about 'what after LLM?' and now that after much research some avenues have opened up - i think it would be quite interesting once I am out of this place - of course, given that things go my way. There are many plans, if only I am able to execute them well.

I resist writing anything personal, just waiting for the next big change and then I will be better. I would be in a place to do what I want without any self-imposed obligations..even if it were to go drown my head. :) love you!

Day 3: LSE Library

In the business of words there comes a time when one may have to eat one's own goods. Did I say in the last post that the material on the topic was 'scarce'? Scarce?!!! As if the library is taking revenge on me. I have spent two hours hopping around four floors at the library today. From the much used course collection section to the dusty bookshelves of 'yore' where each book I picked up lead to twenty more on the same topic. I think everyone who has been anything in Indian academia has had something to say on Kashmir, and they pretty much got it published. And if you include the Indian ambassadors to any country in the world, they also have a thick book in their name on Kashmir - and this only on this part of the border. Once you cross the imaginary LOC in the shelves you find Pakistani authors doing just the same. It comes to the point where you can easily guess what the contents page must be covering. And then come the English authors who sit pretty at the fence as they write on Kashmir, some fondly remembering a wonderful summer they spent in the valley sipping English tea. And then some anti-US ones, who point their fingers at US about everything wrong under the sun (and who knows perhaps they are right, too). So much for Kashmir. Then I went on to get me some books on Self Determination. Another deluge. And then on Secession - yet another. I am allowed to borrow 20 books from the library in my name and I think I am gonna have to borrow someone else's library card for all of the stuff I have picked. I have half a mind to focus more on secession now with application on Kashmir. Or may be decide the topic only after I am done with writing. What a horrible idea. But with so little time in hands, it  does make some sense. I think I had better return to my room with all these books, get me a strong mug of tea, sit down and write. Jes.

Day 2 on Extended Essay II

The writing isn't happening. It is not coming to me yet. I know I am a fast writer when I'm surrounded by the right material, but about Kashmir the views are so divergent that you are halfway through an article only to realize that it is not a balanced piece of writing. The material on international legal pov is even more scarce. However much I try, most of what I read ends up in political rhetoric. 

I will go to the library tomorrow and get more books, especially the ones by Crawford, Cassese and Sumatra Bose. I will be better when I have lots of literature with me. It's strange how books can reassure me more than people can at times. There's something about the written word that says "it will be okay, you will do it right". Books. Books. Books.

I will go for a walk now.. try to shake off the jerky nerves.

so much so little

The first extended-essay is nearly done. I will still need two days for fine-tuning, making the bibliography, contents page et al and then have to give it for printing and binding. Today I have also begun work on the other one the topic of which is Self-Determination, Secession and Kashmir. The next two days will be important, because if I dont find enough legal material I might have to give it up and start afresh on something similar yet new. But I think I will pull it through. So much has been done, so little has been done.

It's been raining all day today. And I'm propped in my chair. A long day lies ahead.

...

Sometimes it feels like a long holiday, at others a long sleep, sometimes it is a long journey that I'm making in a train, at others it's crawling realization that the journey will take forever. Then at others I longingly await the end of it, times when I know it will end, making it all bearable. Then I fantasize where I will be. Happy where I am. I don't know where things are going, I am just trying to do my best.

After a lot many days I read a lot today. Downloaded a nice application on the ipad that allows me to read newspapers with ease. Felt good. Felt as if as the time to go back comes nearer, I am again picking up threads from where I had left. Reading a lot of news also makes one angry, and such anger must be preserved.

When I get into this mode, all things that seem so important one moment, start to look insignificant. Abstractions like happiness, love, peace et al. Another kind of freedom takes over - even leading to that what is now insignificant already. And then I'm least bothered by it all. I've begun to understand a few things better than I did earlier. I guess that's the purpose of it all.

A random memory: i don't know from where, but flashes of a school trip are on my mind now. I'm wearing a pair of white pajama bottoms with a white sleeveless top, at a resort where we stayed on the school trip. And I'm looking at the breakfast buffet spread in front, and cool, salty Goan breeze coming from the sea not very far. A little girly consciousness was there. That girl is me. So strange.

That was also the first time I had ever seen the vast sea.

Sigh.

What would I not give. For a lick on the hand, a woof in my ear, a jump and a sudden sprint, a total menace prancing around my toes; nibbling at my ankles, eating away the furniture, running away with the remote, barking like a dog. With the tongue lolling, and the ears crooked, see him running about in circles trying to catch his own tail and a sudden jump on the sofa - and the scared guests. What would I not give. For a bark asking me to take him for a walk, for crazy fights with horrible neighbors, or plain simple showing him off. What would I not give, to have you come home once more. In a little basket may be, as you once did. And to know that you are mine. What would I not give. For your heartbeat that was always so fast, and those paws ever so soft. What I miss about you most are the things I feel I have lost. I want a dog. I want a dog.

I will.

I will make it all right. I promise you, me.

the new place

I'm gonna try writing like old times now. Write for people who read and not just for myself. The self-talk was important too, but now I think it is doing me more harm than good. Writing has always been something I enjoy. I just wanna continue to do that. So anyway, im still in London. Shifted at a different place couple of weeks back. I like the locality but I stil miss the rush of WC2N. Anytime I would get out there would be people around.. laughing people, drunk people, couple people, single people.. I have walked out of the hall at 2.30 am there to Tesco or Co-operative and got me something to munch. Here it is quieter at night. 1 am and the roads are deserted and people fast asleep. But the good part is Shad Thames. All I got to do is walk a little bit to find myself at the bank of Thames and there to my left is the giant tower bridge with the Olympic Rings hanging from up there these days. At night its brilliant, the lights the reflection in the waters, the small food joints, there is also a big broken anchor with giant shackles lying there.. you can't move them an inch if you tried. Yea, it is peaceful here.

freehand

I need to find myself. I still need to know so much. As if all the knowing has come down to nothing. The struggle with self continues. As much as I know it is a boon that there is much to know (as if ever we can really know stuff), the thought of the journey overwhelms me. I'm tired, not exhausted, just tired. The good thing is that I get better with little recompence, it may be that one heals better when the wounds are one's own giving. 

I needed nothing but simple and yet each time I observe, I have all but simple. The people have faces, the places landmarks.. I know they really are. But are they? What is it that is right? What is it that is mine? This isn't a dilemma, for the way out the dilemma is a purpose or perspective. I have no idea where I am. I don't even know what this is called.

Middlemarch

He thinks with me,' said Dorothea to herself, 'or rather, he thinks a whole world of which my thought is but a poor twopenny mirror. And his felings too, his whole experience - what a lake compared with my little pool!'

...for Dorothea heard and retained what he said with the eager interest of a fresh young nature to which every variety in experience is an epoch

Into this soul-hunger as yet all her youthful passion was poured; the union which attracted her was one that would deliver her from her girlish subjection to her own ignorance, and give her the freedom of voluntary submission to a guide who would take her along on the grandest path.

There would be nothing trivial about our lives. It would be like marrying Pascal. I should learn to see the truth by the same light as great men have seen it by.

some post

I again dreamt of Panther last night. Again because his memories seem to have resurfaced. Apparently he was still there.. I dreamt that I had left him at the vets and forgot to get him back for two years thinking he was no more. He looked weak and.. he was in a shed, with a leash tied to a pole and I shuddered to think what he must have gone through all this time in the heat and the rain and the chill, this apart from the enormous guilt of having left him there. I woke up a li'l upset and aching for him. Trying to remember how it felt to hold his big fuzzy face in my hands, his ears flapping around and kiss his forehead lovingly. Even thought is delightful.

Soon exams would be over and I would begin work on the two dissertations I have to write. I hope the work helps me take the decision about whether I want to do the Phd. Btw have been comfort reading Harry Potter these days. I was on that part about Hermione making the polyjuice potion. In the end, all they need is 'a bit of the people they are changing into'. That's what keeps happening with us - for good, worse, or an hour at the most!

pummeling my pillow

Last night as I lay reading a book in my bed, I realised my life was nowhere I wanted it to be. Hark, it hardly even reflected 'me'. And yet, it was mine fair and square.. at the moment it felt if I were to go looking for my life sometime and have to pick and choose one on the basis that I would be able to recognise which one is mine, much like one is able to recognise one's clothes or one's dog, I'm gonna walk right past mine without as much as a pause. Or worse, I would knowingly walk past mine without as much as a pause. 

Morning came and along came some sense. Would never walk past my life without  yelling for all to hear, "there, there! that one's mine!" Better still, would never walk past my life at all.