Sunday, February 25, 2007

I'm Calling This A Post

And there's absolutely nothing you can do about that.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind

If the pain of loving you becomes unbearable, will I erase you?
Because the burden of being loved is overbearing, you have erased me.

When love becomes anonymous, language breaks down. I have no words for you. Or, so much to say that I must be silent or choke in the torrent of words couched in the silence of time.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd ...

We are the loving dead. The ones who have loved so much and so often, that love becomes quiet and everydaymundane.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

We're watching Salaam-e-Ishq, and laughing our guts out at the things the audience is expected to take seriously. Vidya Balan's character has had a train accident and needs her head to be examined. She's being put through a CT scan and we've politely left off laughing because really, a CT scan? There's only so much fun you can make of it. When:-

Sahana, a pretty junior: Is that a washing machine? Ohmygawd, why are they putting her head inside a washing machine?!

I spend a lot of time in the vicinity of suchlike befuddlements. My inanity therefore, is well accounted for.

Sunday, February 04, 2007

My father's closest friend passed away this evening. I found out when it was raining outside, and I was listening to Sympathy For the Devil. God has a macabre sense of humour.
When the weight of the world becomes too heavy to bear, we make light of things that concern us most deeply.
My father has spent the last three hours since he got home making phone calls to anybody he can think of and talking about the weather. In our family we don't express grief.
The loss of a best friend. It begins with a cold numbness while you stare wide-eyed and disbelieving at the world, suddenly bereft of the company you didn't think you would ever be without. Months, sometimes years go by, until you stop questioning the existence of that heaviness caged inside your ribs that travels up to your throat sometimes but no amount of gagging will release it.
The pain, sticky, slightly sweet, never leaves.
My mother is counting the money she stands to lose, now that Arun Uncle is no more. They were business partners.
My father is suffering a financial and emotional loss far beyond anything I can comprehend.
I am tearing down the plastic moneyplant that winds itself around a lamp that hangs down three floors from a long brass chain attached to the ceiling on the top floor of our house. Superstition is a weakness born out of weakness.