Poetry versus Prada

He was 21, she was 15. They had just become man and wife. He was away working in a city. She was with his family in village faraway going about her wifely duties. And those were the times when distance actually made the heart grow fonder. When poetries were written for the woman you loved. He wrote her a poem. It talked of gratitude, pride, longing and the love that he felt for her. It talked of how she was everything he had hoped she would be. It talked of how she was the perfect daughter-in-law to his parents and will be the perfect mother to their then unborn kids.
They were together for 66 years and had 9 kids.

She is 88 now and he is gone. But the memory of the poem written 73 years ago brings a smile to her now frail face. First she refused to recite it to us, said she was shy. And then when she did, she remembered every single word, and I could tell she read it just the way he had then. She paused in between the lines; I wondered what she might be thinking. Whatever it was, it was lovely, I am sure.


Have I ever had someone write poetry for me? No I did not. Neither did my friends or their friends. Because somehow a holiday in Prague or a boot from Prada made more sense.

Would I want to tradeoff my 3 promised gifts for 200 words of tenderness? I guess not.

It is the best of times; it is the worst of times.

And yeah it was the age of wisdom and the age of foolishness. What does the season of SALE do to you? It gets the worst out in me. The evil, nasty, selfish, rude and wily self, the one that I keep under wraps, most months of the year. Case in point - I race with fragile strangers to reach that lone M shirt. I push the kids away en route to the 50% off section. And yeah as I stand in the 50m long queue outside the trial room I swear. That’s not all, the possessed me also screams at sales girls [which is swear I never do] when my alternations aren’t done, or when a promised shoe in my size isn’t found. Yes, it gets ugly. And at the end of the whole SALE season I feel very sorry for myself and whosoever crossed my path. My loot makes me happy but it leaves me with such a bitter feeling.

These are also the times when I get incredibly stupid, the times when I lose the sense of balance. And the memory of a depleted bank account suddenly vanishes. I buy a certain t-shirt in 4 different colours, do you ask, why? Because I like t-shirts. Because I like colours. Because it’s on sale. I buy a bag. Then I buy another, and then maybe another one, as I see 50 percent drop to 70 per cent. I do so because I like bags. Because I have a thing for bags. Because I have many things to keep in those bags. And because I am getting them cheap. Yes, moments of ‘oh it’s a steal!’ leave me happy and satiated but it also leaves me disoriented.

It could be momentary lapse of reason. Could be good ol’ greed. Or most probably in my case, could be a seasonal loss of memory, reasoning, intelligence and graciousness. Yes, the season of light, the season of darkness is upon us.

A case of blogger’s block

In the past few months not only have I not been able to write anything of interest, I haven’t had any interesting thoughts either. Yeah, scary stuff. No, it isn’t a case of being stuck or being bored contrarily there have been too many changes. A new job, a new home, new locality, new restaurants, new gym, the works; so it is not a case of the stale routine. And so, it must be what I frequently experience at work. A block. A big, big block. The writer's block. [ooh la la the word writer has a such a nice feel to it, doesn't it? that explains the peanutish moolah in advertising]

Back to the block, yeah I did attempt to write on a few occasions though, wow see the word attempt, c’mon an attempt to blog? How sad is that? So, after rounds of navel gazing, I decided to wait, wait until the words came flowing, such a robust flow, that no deadline, no lazy mind can stop.

Well, that was not to be. So I wrote. See the post below, says something doesn’t it, it was so forced? This time round, I am going to wait a little longer, yeah there’s a risk involved, that I never start again. That the ominous block refuses to go. Tough times. Sigh.

And on that note, I leave you with a question… just how seriously should a blogger take her blog?

When the tough refuses to get going…

There are times, when no matter how hard you try, how much ever, things just don’t change. For better. And then there are things you could do about it, sulk or to not sulk. Yeah of course you would keep trying to change things [I wouldn’t venture there in this blog, cause that will be little self-helpish, and I don’t want that.] Cut to the chase, times have been such that more often than not, I seek things that comfort me, things that tell me life isn’t a monster that there’s so much more to my day than the sore thing(s), which I will refrain from discussing here.

I talk to a friend, not the one who has 37 solutions to my problem, no not her. I speak to the one who cracks me up, oblivious to my troubles. This works.

Food. Of course. Trans fats be damned.

Newer goals [sounds dangerously self-help]. Goals not remotely connected with the pain point.

Television. 5 hours of it. It’s mind numbing, which in the given circumstances, is a good thing.

Books yes. Again like that friend, nothing too deep. Jeffrey Archer heals like no one else. So does Theroux, as he takes you through rainy afternoons in London and romantic evenings in Honolulu.

And yeah, there's nothing that a lot of chocolate can't fix.

Care but not that much.

And never have more important words been spoken. I wish I had heard it sooner. Sooner



on an aside: But, because I care about this blog, and because I like to write, I am going to blog again. Soon enough. As soon as I get my chutzpah back.

“I hope I have it easy, for the first time in my life.”

- An American Idol hopeful.

She did not have it easy. She did not make it to the top 24 of American Idol. After all the hard work, struggle, hope, she is out. And now her entire struggle will cease to matter. Of course she is a very gifted young singer, she has all the time in the world, and this is only the beginning, and how there are so many opportunities and all that soothing signoffs that people tell you. But the thing is, those opportunities will bring another round struggle, pain and hope. It isn’t going to be easy.

Why do some of us have to work so hard? And some just have it so easy? Yeah I am all for hard work and dedication and all that, but just sometimes, I wish I could have it easy like so many others. I envy them. There’s was this girl in my class, she had all the fun that school goers hope to have, and she very effortlessly got the marks that I did, while depriving myself of the fun. And there have been many such instances, at work, at gym and I am going to skip those because they bring back unpleasant memories. Yep, enough has been said about life not being fair, life being random, etcetera. But, don’t you just wish, you had it easy? I do. I am sure there’s a pattern that we are missing. I am going to figure that out, and hopefully before I am spent.

As Calvin put it, “Why should I have to work for everything? It’s like saying I don’t deserve it!”

There are two kinds of people in this world…

[that's me fighting it out]

I am ashamed at being this corny, honest, I never thought I would use this damn ‘two kinds of people’ thing ever, but here I had to, as you see. I have always judged people who say - there are two kinds of people in this world, those who likewhite bread and those who don’t; those who use the straw and those who don’t; those who love to run and those who don’t, and its variants. But here, I had to. That said, yeah there are two kinds of people in this world – those who can freelance and those who can not.

By ‘those who can’ I mean those who can handle the whole process graciously and emerge unscathed. And by handling the whole process I mean procuring work, meeting deadlines, negotiating deadlines, talking money and collecting money.

I, however, as one might have rightly guessed by now, come under the ‘don’t’ group. I suck at it. And I gave had two ugly experiences so far, pretty ugly ones actually; and I have realized that my living-on-a-hilltop-sipping-on-chai-latte-writing-three-days-a-week-and-earning-a-neat-money dream is certainly not happening and I have also learnt to respect my day job, my only job.

[and that's my man fighting it out for me]

And since I am meek and coward and can’t do much about those two ugly experiences, I will say a silent prayer – May both the aforementioned parties, rot in hell. Amen.