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Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Where I devise a new method to get free food from people.

My dreams always have erred a little on the cuckoo side. The world ups and swallows itself, people morph into other people and things, people pray to the God of unsweetened black coffee, people suddenly turn into Charlie's Angels and the laws of probability, physics and dairy products are repeatedly destroyed. Keeps life interesting.

However, the dreams I've been having for the past week have been the most disturbing of the lot. All of them consist of simple conversations with people I know and talk to on a regular basis. No fuss, no action. Just talking. About perfectly believable things at that, and in perfectly plausible settings.

Now when I wake up, I have no way of telling what people have actually told me, and what I dreamt they told me. You know something's wrong when you keep referring to conversations that never happened, to have people look at you in bewilderment. This has happened way too many times in the past few days. Now I hesitate before referring to anything at all. Highly inconvenient, this.

If I come up to you and start yakking about the latest insight you shared with me about the childhood crush you never had, don't mind me. Just hand me a cookie and send me away.

Friday, November 05, 2010

Yet another predictable Diwali post.

It's Diwali. And I don't really care. I've never been a festival person. I'm not one to either attend or enjoy pujas. I don't burst crackers. I only wear the perfunctory new item of clothing because it makes my mom happy.

I step out into the corridor of my hostel. It's dark because everyone's left. Gone to burst crackers, have fancy dinners, compare pretty shimmery Indian outfits. A very tiny diya burns all alone outside my neighbour's room. It's pretty. Makes me smile.

I go for my evening run and come back after an hour. The hostel lights are all off. The only light comes from the lit diyas now adorning the entrance of the hostel. And the little candles on each step right up to the second floor. And the small lamps on the corridor, now outside every other door.

I don't like crackers, they make me cough. I don't like the pujas, I think they're pointless. I don't like the glaring lights hung up everywhere, they blind me. The way this festival makes a silent empty building glow oh-so-prettily is Diwali for me. As it turns, out I do care.

Happy Diwali everyone.

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

... and Tim Burton scoffs.

There is a fence, a good distance away. A picket fence, but not painted white, not a Wisteria Lane fence, not a fence that belongs to a house which has investment banker dads and mothers who make cupcakes and kids who eat said cupcakes and roll off to school in the family SUV. This fence is brown, weathered, beaten.

You stand there and watch. Watch that fence in the desolate greyness of the drizzle that shows no sign of abating.

Slowly, the top of these cracked pieces of wood turns into dozens and dozens of grubby little fingers, all atop the fence. They beckon urgently, haphazardly. It's difficult not to panic, watching as those disembodied fingers draw you closer and closer. Just as you open your mouth to scream, you find yourself stifled by the feeling of damp earth stuffed down your throat.

Darkness.

So, boys and girls, the lesson here is: Do not fall asleep right after you watch Gossip Girl. It messes with your head.