Attraversiamo.

Attraversiamo is an italian phrase, that means 'Lets Cross Over'.
A couple years before, I wasn't even acquainted with this supreme world of blogging.
I will not cook up a story as to how I started blogging because I quite frankly do not remember.
But I wrote my very first post for my mother and that was the day I knew that this would become irreplacable for me.

Two years ago, I dreamt of a happy place.
Two years ago, I created a happy place.
And you're in it right now.

My blog turned 2 this June and I can't believe that it still can lift up my spirits when I'm down.
Its a gloomy milestone and I'm just crossing it over. Hope they're many more to come.

PS Title Courtesy - Eat Pray Love.

Delicious Ambiguity.

The best thing in life is not knowing how its going to end. This way, hope and love always find a path to struggle back in. As the years pass by, we are often engulfed in a quagmire with ourselves, amidst that whiff of a smoke and those beautiful laugh lines. They make us look older, also wiser, but do we care ? Our sense of right and wrong develops a smarter perspective, only to unfold the real us. 

What a frivolous conundrum this life is.

It is strange, how our ideals shape themselves according to our comfort. Not everything right deed springs up an innocent smile, not every wrong deed weighs heavy on the conscience. I don't know why I am being a philosophical nerd here, but the irony of this fact is that there was a time when all that I'm writing right now would have put me to sleep in no time. Change. That, I suppose, is what I'm talking about, or atleast I'm trying to.

Change, has never really been my thing. I like routine, waking up to the sound of the same alarm tone everyday, running late for work. I let comfort settle a layer deep inside my skin. And when the situation demands to peel it off, I feel this infuriating pain that stings me at regular intervals.

Stories. Did you know, every man has a story to tell ? No matter how dark, no matter how twisty, there is always a story somewhere in that nondescript part of their brain, waiting to be told. Stories, that were woven with great precision, intertwined with an accurate dose of happiness and tears. They make them want to jog down the altar that leads to happy memories, memories that are stained with flaws, flaws that seem to be the closest possible entity to whats real.

Some, inherit the richness of time. 

Some, fly away with that broken wing.

But then again, The best thing in life is not knowing how its going to end. Or rather, how your story is going to end.

Bundle of Joy [55Fiction #8]

He clenched his fist around her tired finger, a tiny pink bundle and smiled into her pale face. Her hair, wet with sweat, pointed in every possible direction and the maternity gown hung lose from one of her shoulders, yet, she had never felt so beautiful.

She smiled back and whispered, You complete me baby.

***

PS - My sister has been blessed with the cutest baby boy. He is going to be 12 days old today :) Pretty suggestions for his name are most welcome :)

Sweet Oblivion.

She woke up to an unrealized dream untangling itself in her sub-conscience. She decided to give it some more time and lied there for another hour, drowning herself in her furry bed covers. The alarm snoozed with a shrill noise and she lazily searched for her phone under the pillow. She called office, two long impatient rings, a silent click and she left a message informing about her sick leave.

Her purple brazierre peeked through her over-sized t-shirt, and revealed all her flaws and scars screaming in the submissive morning light, but she couldn't care any less today. She wore them with an indifferent pride. Her eyebrows looked like little sleeping worms and she woke them up in one fine sweep. The air was filled thick with such delirium; she could cut it with a knife. She looked at herself in the mirror and touched her left cheek, 'My God, I'm so fucking beautiful'. Her ears couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Her modest alter-ego never let her believe this but today was a new day. She twitched her nose and licked her dry lips. She swore she wouldn't tell anybody, but that smile in the mirror told her that it knew what she was upto. She stared at herself smiling a good long while before waking her laptop up and logging into her blog.

I’m not sick, I’m almost never sick, I don’t know why I’ve taken this leave but I have a feeling in my chest that says it’s going to be a beautiful day. Fingers crossed.

(Saved to Drafts).

She pulled her hair back and secured them in a bun, she hadn’t tied her hair this way in years. It gave her such silly joy, she could hardly contain it. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it like they do it in  the movies. The very taste of it burnt the inside of her mouth but that made her gulp another sip. And then another one. She put on a green maxi dotted by little flowers at the hem and walked over to the book-store. Every profile on blogosphere said they’d read and loved ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’, it made her feel like a clown in a ballroom filled with sophisticated people. She bought the book and happily smiled at every stranger who as much as glanced at her on her way back.  

She spent the day devouring the scent of the pages and rummaging through the contents of the book. Her phone was switched off and she promised herself she wouldn’t switch it to life, no matter what happens today. She googled the recipe and baked herself little coconut cupcakes. She did not put on any slippers for the rest of the day and her dirty feet had never felt so good.

I was right. Today was such a joyful day. Niyati says I hardly return a smile to the ones I know, but today I spread it amongst sweet strangers. It was sheer pleasure. That beautiful maxi adorned my legs with such uncalled beauty, I couldn't recognize myself. The wine tasted sour but I drank some more because the real me would’ve gagged. 

I’ve been myself for too long.

I read, smiled, drank, baked, walked bare foot and called myself beautiful today.

I feel liberated.

She titled it ‘The bitter-sweet agony of being me’ and published it.

The next day fell into routine but it too felt special under the shadow of yesterday.

Chaotic Gleam [55Fiction #6]

The inky sky is a beautiful hazy chaos today. These witty clouds have slyly conspired to send out old unspoken messages  to the universe, basking in their own apparent glory. They look happy and so am I.

For once, I wish the sun wouldn’t peep in, just this once, and then the clouds could rule.

***

PS - Not much of fiction went into writing this.

'Down The Road' - A Book Review

This review is a part of Book Review program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books.

Evoked Déjà vu !!

Title: Down The Road

Edited by: Ahmed Faiyaz and Rohini Kejriwal

Publisher: Grey Oak Westland

Published: 2011

Pages: 225

Price: Rs. 195

Genre: Campus Fiction- Short Stories

Down The Road is an eclectic compilation of twenty eight campus tales by sixteen authors. Some writers, some bloggers and some even writing for the first time. A small bunch are still living their campus lives in different parts of the country right now and that made their stories a little extra niche above the others. The whole flavor of the book binds you and impatiently wants you to move to the next one in store. It couldn't have been titled more aptly. I finished with college last year and this book evoked waves of déjà vu for me.

Caffeinated long assignments, punishments, a look here, a smile there, jumping at the sight of food like you're kept starved at home, fighting, crying, laughing your brains out, breaking up, little sweet gestures and then patching up, bunking just because you feel like it today, that first porn video you accidently saw in your friend's phone, that first stolen kiss, ragging and getting ragged, dressing everyday like you're running to meet your biggest enemy, shopping all kind of crap, crushing over the disturbingly handsome programming professor, nudging him into a laughter, xeroxing notes, doodling little hearts all over his oh-so-pretty notebook during the lecture, studying a day before the sessionals, cheating, failing terms and still not letting them affect the next days plans, missing classes every friday to catch the latest, and not to forget, the lamest release, celebrating everybody's birthday with equal enthusiasm, you and your bff bitching evil and nasty things.


Heaven it was. Our very own.

Ahmed Faiyaz is a writer with substance and he has proved this time and again in this book. Its divided into sections for the reader to grasp its purpose more clearly. Although Knockout had a confused end for me but I praise Ahmed for the rest. But Paritosh Uttam stole the limelight for me. Sororicide was touching and showed that people may choose to show you one part of them but that doesn't mean they have nothing more to them. A young school teacher is handed a bunch of bratty kids to handle. Her awkward hands dangling by her side conveyed much more than Paritosh might have meant to. Although the books mentions that Between Friends has been repeated from Urban Shots but I don't see a valid justification there. The first section Attendance is Compulsory is more of a fun roller coaster which also contains the lovable Smells Like Home. Ira Trivedi's Rishi And Me was built on teenage betrayal and it turned out really well. I was sad and sorry for her characters. But then again, her second The Music Room was even better. Read this book for her if nothing else.

The unmistakable character description by all these wonderful authors was a high for me. The stories ranged from excellent to good to bad to boring but all in all I don't think I can complain. Remember Me ? is a mere promotion of Another Chance by Ahmed Faiyaz but then again he can't blamed for that. If, by God's grace, I get my work published someday, I know it in my bones that I'd promote myself shamelessly at any and every provided opportunity. The second section deals with much mature issues like Placements, Politics and College festivals. The Cafe With no Name was a mature innocent tale. It couldn't have been better.The Worm That Turned by Malathi Jaikumar steals the show in Lights Out. Fiction on Campus was not as good as it promised it to be.

All said and done, its a light coffee read and you won't regret picking it up.

My Rating: 3.5 on 5

You can buy it at Flipkart.com here.

Reluctance [55Fiction #5]

She raised her right leg reluctantly and balanced her petite self on the heel of her left foot.
Bam !! She fell again, and naively blamed the new ballerinas.

'Am I cursed with two left feet ?'

The dog shook his head. The frock he wore danced in approval.
And her mother coyly smiled through the door.

***

PS - As you may have noticed, the picture was the inspiration here.

Happy Valentine's Day

The scent of the sandal incense sticks left no corner of their house untouched by its warmth. It made them feel at home. It made home smell like home. Anushree's elder daughter was dressing up for school while reciting a poem for an inter-school competition, determined to win this time. She packed three loaves of bread and butter for lunch and kissed her good luck. Her husband, no matter how early he woke up, was always late for work. Half eating his breakfast, he rushed to catch the last bus just in time. She waved him a quick goodbye. She always postulated, if a person leaves home with a smile, he comes back with a wider one. Her mother never let her father leave home without a hug which matured into a formal one over the years, yet never was the ritual broken.

Her younger daughter was still in bed. She hugged her in her sleep and tried to cuddle off her morning weariness. Surprisingly enough, she hugged her back. She had named her daughter after her grandmother. She wished her a happy morning in a singsong voice. A couple of minutes later, her little girl got out of bed and switched on the TV. Watching Uncle Scrooge dive into his ocean of coins elated her. Anushree folded her quilt and shouted 'Do I have to tell you to brush your teeth everyday ?'. She scorned her way to the bathroom and lazily scrubbed her teeth. She cleaned herself up and a splash of water removed the last traces of sleep and pillow marks from her face.

Browsing through the channels now and eagerly waiting for her chocolate milk, she came across the new Vodafone ad that claimed to have special caller tunes and greetings for some day that started with a V and had an unexpectedly long spelling. She couldn't pronounce it and blamed the ad for being too small for her to grasp the pronunciation properly. She changed the channel and found the same mention there too. And  then, another one. She baby-stepped into the kitchen and asked Ma about this special day that was supposed to be occurring tomorrow. She wanted to make all the necessary arrangements before her friends, if the said day was so important.

Anushree was bewildered. She hadn't practiced an answer to this question of her influential 9 year old. She wanted to keep her girls away from this day, as far away as possible. She picked her up, made her sit on the kitchen slab and went back to chopping carrots for the mix-vegetables she was cooking for lunch. After a lot of probing and stubborn insistence, Anushree struggled to pick up the right words. 'You know I love your Father, right ?' She nodded in happy approval and smiled. Anushree could spot her missing milk-tooth. 'Well, it is a special day where I let him know that in words'. Her daughter mouthed Ohhh and slid back to the floor. Her frock frolicked with every step she took, apparently in amusement of this newly found special information about tomorrow.

'Where are my oil pastels Ma ?' She demanded with urgent patience. They were kept in the third drawer of her cupboard and Anushree found them for her.

The next morning, Anushree found a red-bordered page peeking out from under her daughter's pillow. It looked like a page from her maths notebook because of the tiny translucent grey squares all over it. She picked it up, it looked like a card with little flowers and leaves sprinkled unevenly all over it. She opened it and her face broke into a million smiles. Very carefully, she shoved it back in and waited for the precious moment when her daughter would give it to her.

The card read -

Happy Special Day, Ma.
I want to let you know in words that I love you very much.


It was the most beautiful Valentine's gift she had anticipated in years.

Life is a Dance [55Fiction #4]

They said 'Dance isn't your cup of tea'.
I retorted 'Life is a dance and I will live it gracefully'.

The eager reporter left and she waltzed around the room with her last performance, glimpses of her first ran inside her head.
The woman in the mirror was proud of her and nothing else mattered.

***

-- Dedicated to Tao Porchon-Lynch. A dancing star at 94.

Dilapidated

His sleep had probably become the only time peace and calm visited him. His wife gently ran her thin, pale hand through his hair. Those translucent veins evidently tried to run through the gaps between her fingers. He let out a sigh and opened his eyes. This was a beautiful customary routine. She would wake him up with the same teasing ruffle of his hair and even if he was awake, he waited for her gesture, it assured him of her love in a complacent way. She spoke a million words in that little soothing moment.

Another day full of hopeful prayers. Another day of an incessant struggle.

He bathed, got dressed, a crisp blue shirt paired with semi-black trousers that miserably failed to hide the bloat he was carrying around himself. His hair were parted on the same side his mother used to do them, carefully disguising the grey strands and the bald spot on the top. He dabbed a few drops of coconut oil to keep them in place. His shoes shone in an egotistical middling manner like they didn't have a care in this world. His wife nudged him with a quick breakfast and he rode on his quest.

The guard at the door greeted him with a refreshing smile, but then, smiling and bowing down to the people rushing through these glass doors defined his job description. An uncalled whoosh of air wheezed into his shirt from the ceiling airway, making the hair on his chest rise. He could barely cease the inappropriate act of rubbing his chest publicly in a hurried fashion, eyeing every corner of the well-lit hall for cameras ensnaring his manners like a vulture. He placed himself on the velvety sofa, admiring its comfort in a secluded indifferent corner of his brain.

"Registration Number 1509 ?'

'Yes, yes, that'd be me, M Sreesaran'

'You may go inside.'

A breathed in paunch, synchronized documents, neat laces, toes struggling to stay in place, and he felt as ready as he'll ever be. His interviewer looked as a sybarite at first, but the proceedings were smooth. After 3 uneasy hours of anticipation, wanting to grab every hint of hope that flew in the air, he was informed that this job wasn't made for him.

He took the same bus back home. At the dinner table, his daughter grunted 'Are we having yellow dal again ? Why is this never up for debate daddy ?'

There lay merely one string on his monochrome bow, unemployment, and life played it in different yet, recurrent monotonous tunes every single day.

Happy Birthday [55Fiction #3]

"53 years of marriage and you still remain the most beautiful woman who has ever walked this earth for me"
 His wrinkles accompanied his signature cheshire smile.

"Sir, your coffee, less milk, no sugar".

"Happy Birthday sweetheart"

He pressed the picture to his lips and with two neat folds, kept it back into his wallet.