An ode to the purveyor

Dear You,

Your emptiness aggrieves me. The past few days, I’ve eagerly come to you at every hour of need..be it at the nadir of a raw night or at the screech of dawn, but you just stand there…with nothing much to offer. I stay for a while…hoping I’ll be able to get something out of you but your cold, void demeanor kicks me hard in the pit of my stomach. Every night I’ve headed back..a hollow, sinking feeling weighing heavy on every vein of mine.

But today, as I decked you up, you bounced to life. I know you’ll be there again, just like you used to. I hate seeing you all barren and desolate, and I vow that every time it happens I’ll bring you your coke zero and not coke light, orange juice with pulp and not the one without sugar, apple juice with aloe vera and not by itself, milk that is only low fat and high calcium and nothing else, jasmine green tea , slices of reduced fat cream cheese, a smoragsbord of fruits that cannot be sour and little cute cups of richly flavoured yoghurt.

You understand now why your emptiness hollows me out too, don’t you?

Love,
Your lipid-lined hog

Blubber and Blabber.

Dear You,

You realize it now…don’t you?

That wasn’t your fault. You’re not a runaway maniac that needs to be tamed.

It was the heavy chocolate, cream and coffee frolicking with your head. Down with Java Chip. Maybe it’s some covert operation by Starbucks to get all the girls lapping up sugar and stoking conversational libido with inebriated spirits.

It was the big round slab of cold, gooey poached chocolate topped with thick swirls of liquor cream at ‘Awfully Chocolate’ cavorting with your cognition.

So, next time these friends force chocolate down your throat, learn to move your head a bit to the left, and a bit to the right..nice and firm…’shaking’, they call it. Nod violently all you want in the depths of your heart but not the slightest indication of an affirmation should escape your dry, parched lips in need of melting chocolaty goodness that just makes you swoon.

All that chocolate is just going to get warm and comfy and hang out of your skin, sweetheart. And a divorce is as hard as is easy the matrimony. Be a teetotaler hereon, yes? We need to get you back to your previous psychological dwellings that barred all blubber.

And hopefully, we won’t have you jabbering away till dawn either.

Amen.

Warningly yours,
Your future Yokozuna body

Back home…or am I.

I took the three am flight back to Singapore…it was pitch black outside..somewhere along the aisle, a balding head hung out..I stared…waiting for it to suddenly start swiveling wildly, uncontrollably with violent seizures to boot…but it just dangled, hinged to a long slender neck. Boring.

Four hours later, I got out of the flight and braced myself for that ceremonious pang of homesickness…and that ceremonious washing it down with the perks of being in a clean, convenient and safe city. But this time, as I walked toward the Arrival Hall…

Flashback 1:

The village in the heart of Bengal..the little dirt road that lead to the beneficiary school..the trio of ducks that would immediately spread out its magnificent wings in proud unison as we approached…the waters..my favourite little hut…Chotu (my little earring-in-one-year village boy hero who i think will grow up to be a stud), the bright green cropfields, the women balancing pots of water atop their heads…

Flashback 2:
Delhi…winter…momos…chai…bike rides..rumaali roti and kaali daal…cooking..old songs..movies..devanand…

Flashback 3:
Chaos, people, life, dirt, smoke, colours, laughter, music, warmth, traffic, cold, death, love, comfort, conflict, culture, home.

I waved to my dad, got my luggage out, got into the car and we drove toward home..or whatever it was where we lived. Well it’s my bad I want normal, sane people sleeping in the flight to jump out and burst with excitement, horror and drama.

I must mention that these pictures have been stolen off friends’ facebook accounts…I knew myself better than to carry a camera with me…the one gadget i did carry (my phone) got screwed as well…so the record holds.

:|

At the foodcourt..

Me: Yeap..there’s my food. It looks so good.

MCS: Yeah, go write about it in your blog…the right noodle fell in love with the left noodle..

If you think I’m generally mean, risk a conversation with me NOW.

Eileen: “Here take my cookie. No, have more. You need it. Good good, I’ll bring cookies to every meeting from now on.”

Sush: “No, you have the cake. You need it more.”

Dear Everyone,

I think you’re right. I suffer from Split Personality Disorder. I’m sure my transition from little miss sunshine to an explosive cantankerous woman scares and amuses you all at the same time. Presently, I’m extremely unpleasant to make conversation with, so please bury your desires for a few days until I morph again to a being with some semblance of sanity. Somehow, a part of me enjoys being this way because it means I’m up to neck with work. Better than having my idle brain grin diabolically. Don’t you think?

Free cookies, cakes and chocolates are welcome, but I must warn you that their effects are temporary.

Your nightmare of a friend,
Nikita

I keel.

I wasn’t going to derail from my objective of not making this space a platform for emotional cathartic upheavals, but I am so supremely miffed right now that any form of cession to past resolutions momentarily eludes me. This is my space, so If I want to sit and rant like a cantankerous old hag, then I shall.

I hate these mad at everyone for everything moments, especially when everyone includes myself.
The only thing I am not mad at right now is the creamy rich chocolate cake, bits of which have been amalgamating in my insides, making friends and preparing for permanent residency in their organic forms in various parts of my body. Luckily for them I’m not Canadian, else they would stand no chance.

I’m learning Hip Hop. Finally. With a bunch of people who don’t make me feel like I’m amongst human robots programmed to figuratively break their bodies into separate pieces and make them boogie independently of one another. I think I’m going to enjoy it; primarily because I was crazy enough to subconsciously practice shuffling my feet while sitting in a crowded bus, on my way home after a long, long day without sleep and rest. Shuffling screws with your head – at least mine, which barks orders at the heel of my right foot to lift up while simultaneously willing the heel of my left foot to stay in its place and lift up the toes instead. And you’re supposed to side-walk while doing this. It’s amusing to see the trainer trying hard not to laugh at us as we try to monkey his antics, and then just giving up; emulating us and setting the whole room roaring with laughter. It’s very relieving to finally learn dance at a technical level again – it has been 10 years since I last did that. We also learn Salsa this semester. 😀

Oh, and did I derail from my derailment? I think I did. Lucky you.

Control yaar…Nahi hota yaar.

This is it. I’ve fallen prey, and now there’s no going back. After nearly a half a decade of abstinence, the pounding libido has translated to countless rendezvous that I had thus far trained myself to develop an innate repulsiveness to. Thus far.

Scientifically and statistically, developing such carnal relationships has always lead to a colossal carnage – a fact known by all, but accepted by a few. And now, though I had begun writing this full of feelings of shame and self-abhorrence, I do feel slightly adulterated by a rebellious sense of pride. And pride of this nature is like fine wine – an acquired taste; an acquired emotion.

We are an entire sect of people altogether. Call us ignorant masochists who take pleasure in indulging in sinful acts wantonly rather than standing afar and shaking heads in condescending disapproval. We refuse to resist, we refuse to absist, and we refuse to sacrifice our longings. And we most definitely are not going to resort to any insipid, drab substitutions of the main juicy thing that we so devour.

We simply do not have it in us. We love it too much. Those who don’t, are pretentious wannabees. They want it just as much as we do – but they restrain, slave to the fear of facing consequences that may stain their vanity. I was just like that, but now I’m changing…but I know it won’t be long before I return to my previous safe and comfortable abode of self control.

I’m in India for two more weeks, and I’m going to eat like a pig. I’m gonna be consumed by my love for all the mithais, pakodas, cakes and ice creams, rolls and other sugar-coated, ghee-loaded and deep-fried treats from heaven that I had previously shunned. Yes that’s right – from heaven, not from hell. Stuff that’s actually really tasty, and not edible masses of body fat as I’d trained myself to think.

All rendezvous are meant to end sooner or later – I’ll enjoy mine while it lasts. Cheers to all who proudly live to eat, and love themselves for doing so!