Gender War (t) s

“Behind Every Successful Man is a Woman.”

If you think I could be so pathetic as to get you here to explain this proverb which is older than the word proverb itself (not true: the origins of the word proverb date back years before this quotation surfaced – if anything they are pretty much equally old) – then you, my friend, are much closer to the truth than the pajamas-donning dude who comes to my blog looking for girls who will sing sweet lullabies to him after midnight, when his phone company’s ‘happy hour’ starts.

You have all heard this quote time and time again, but have you ever wondered why some woman has still not said that about a man?

If you can put your male stupidity aside for a minute and really think about this then you will realize that the world indeed, does NOT revolve around you.

The reason for this is simple – Men, by nature, cannot be responsible for the success of any woman. I will explain this in awfully slow detail so you can wait awhile before raising your hand.

Why do you think I say that?

Because men, in general, are hardly effficient givers of compliment while women know how to furnish them quite well.

Allow me to elaborate by the help of an every day example here.

Confronted by a woman who has just had her hair streaked, her eyebrows waxed, her nails done and found a lovely dress to wear at a party, if a woman were to ask, “Hey, How do I look?” A man would probably say: “Nice. Hey wait a minute… Weren’t you gonna get that dress in blue! I mean, red’s fine, but blue looks so much better on you!” thus completely effacing the confidence vote that the woman after going through so much, wanted to get before a party.

Women, on the other hand, take a more positive approach. So when a boyfriend has been sporting a beard that is more CAST AWAY Tom Hanks than Phone Booth Colin Farrell, she looks the other way until the beard has attracted a skin irritation and he gets it all shaved. Then and only then she goes:”The beard was great, but this is a Hotter look on you!” and then she seduces him a bit so anything else is kinda lost on him. Forgive me girls for giving away trade secrets but this had to be done.

Another similar example:

A girl makes a lovely sandwich for the man watching sports for the past eight hours in the hopes that he might not ignore her so completely and the man will take a bite and go: “Hmmm. Is this fish?” “It’s beef!” “No I’m just asking! Thought it tasted like fish! I mean, i don’t mind fish!” and saying that he thinks he has repaired the damage and hence goes back to the television for another eight hours expecting the woman to just vanish in thin air till the game finishes.

A man makes his woman a meal and she finds some major taste issues, she will go:
“Oh my goodness! I never knew you could cook sweetheart! Guess you got so many things to show me still!” and then kiss him, and take leave to bring the bottle of mustard sauce -  at times to kill the sour/bitter taste of the dish.

So you see the difference?

While men take compliments for granted and act as if they deserved it all the way, and hence perhaps think that women somehow don’t – women are always concerned about the man’s ego and to always encourage him – even if he has just vouched to not change the same hoodie for an entire week on a friendly bet with his mates.

And then they wonder why their women are so negative!

If you had asked me a few months back how many calories there were in a banana, i would probably have guessed two, which of course would be extremely wrong. But that was back then- when the only thing i associated with the word ‘cardio’ were heart problems and not exercises.

Now though, its different. now, i have lost over 25 pounds and  actually think twice before i binge on a 1200 calorie zinger when the total amount of calories im supposed to consume in the entire day is somethin like 1500 to 1800, depending on how much physical exercise i have done.

Okay im not here to promote a miracle weight loss pill  or a trick way to eat all i want n still lose weight without exercise. Pigs will fly in 2015 model concordes way before i endorse a drug. I m so anti drug infact that it pains me every time I have to take so much as an asprin.

i dont believe in those diet plan gimmicks either. They are too expensive and basically in our part of the world there isn’t much support available in terms of weight loss buddies or trainers. Hence i have done it the old fashioned way. exercise and watchin what i eat. are you bored already? you think im bragging? well you know what, bragging on my blog is way way better than braggin in real which is what im tryin to avoid.

i mean, i dont even remember if there was ever a time when i was able to do jumping jacks for an entire minute (at about one jump per sec) in so long!! i can do cardio kickboxing for close to 45min and the stationary bike seems like a joke for the first fifteen minutes. how amazing is that? every day the only motivation i need is to know that in a few months i can look the way ive always wanted to look like. Looking the way Ive always looked at myself in my head. im through with not being able to find the right sizes, with writing blogs that speak about issues faced by my unhealthy weight. i think ive had enough. if you were to ask me how it all started, i dont think i know either.

Last i remember I was barfing down a particularly tasty donut while watchin a not-so-particularly memorable episode of THE OC re-runs, it just dawned on me. i wanted to be thinner. so much thinner. Maybe it was the fact that Rachel Bilson had just started going out with Adam Brody – again. Or the fact that “Kirsten” looked that hot in her forties. that was it. since then its been ages since i have had more than a few sips of any fizzy drink apart from a couple of diet colas. But it hasnt been all peaches and cream!!

oh you have not the slightest idea how much it took to kill my unexpected urges of  indulgence in mint icecream or the times when I would wake in the middle of the night and want maple syrup pancakes. OH you have no idea. Initially I thought it wouldnt even work! I mean, i kept giving in to binges! One day it was apple pie, another time it was lasagne… the list was endless – literally. But with whatever little that I was doing, with the addition of excercise, it began to work. I was really losing weight! My scale was moving in the right direction finally!!! And then it all sort of fell into place… it started making more sense!

And now, its not so much a pain – as a need to be healthy and stay healthy rather than torture my body with food with which the only benefit could be a sooner heart attack.

How did I do it? SImple – Calories in = calories out. Adding veggies, fruits, and bran/wholemeal into my food. ANd of course doing any workout that keeps you interested! Dancing, aerobics, kick boxing – its no big secret!!! It really does work.

I think I might be obsessed with shoes right now. A pair of ankle length Steve Madden boots haunt my dreams and dainty Manolos with shiny skins compete against each other in my head. I dreamt about having a walk-in shoe closet last night. The kind where all my shoes are standing proudly in line, showing themselves off. Jimmy Choos and Colin Stuarts in all colors n shapes – even the ones in pink… what is this obsession with footwear!

Have I been reading too much Candace Bushnel or is it just happening to other women too? Every time something goes wrong (or right!) I feel like buying shoes. I just ordered a pair Steve Maddens and this Lahori summer isn’t exactly boot-wearing weather now is it? But I feel good knowing that if I did wear them someday, I would look good and they will be there.
I don’t even wear most of these shoes that I have bought and that is pretty sad. Some of them do not fit well, some are plain uncomfortable and some I keep aside for special occasions that never come. Plus it’s not like I can wear boots at my in laws next dinner! So why am I constantly buying shoes! It’s like a kind of food addiction – you know – the kind that one has with chocolate or cheese.
Perhaps it’s the fact that every woman really just wants to be a princess. And this is one of acting like one! Having costly shoes that I never even wear! It’s frivolous and I don’t have enough money to be frivolous I assure you. If they were easy for me to buy it would be a different story. But they are not! I go through enormous pains to actually make sure I have enough work and then get paid so I can buy these things! But somewhere in there Princess Cinderella just wont shut up! Biatch.

I know one fine day I will read this blog entry and go “how stupid and vain is it to blog about something like that!” but right now the urge to spill the proverbial beans is winning over. :p Besides, a blog is close to being a personal diary (only, not).

Whoever still thinks Meth is the saddest addiction should come have a few words with me so i can display my recently found Kick Boxing skills :p vanity thy name is LAME-ASS-NESS.

(A VERY SHORT STORY)

It was one of those days. The kind when nothing seems right and you feel like expressing this grief somehow but don’t have a shoulder and weeping alone is just not enough. Even if you could get someone to listen, you probably wouldn’t have words to explain the extent of misery that is smoldering inside of you.

One of those days when outside your window is soothing cloudy weather after a long searing summer, the kind you have always loved, and all you can do is be sad about it. No you can’t go out. You don’t even have the strength to change out of your night clothes and its past four in the evening. You can smell the rain even in closed room space. You can tell that outside, everything is washed and shiny and fresh and beautiful. The world is full of stunning places and people are out there having fun yet there is no where for you to go.

There is only this… this insane buzzing of a generator someplace and this dark lonely room that you are sick of.

It’s good that there is no electricity. It gives you an excuse to not finish work because it’s not a working kind of day either. Clients are waiting for your work to be done. So they can pay you, and you need that money for so many reasons. But you just can’t make yourself work! You are probably going to lose that job aren’t you? Well so what. Right now you cant’ be bothered.

Right now you are only aware that your heart is aching and there is no one who can understand this. You need hope, if nothing else, for a better time, for a less lonely moment. You miss the family that is not around and are hurt by the family you do have around. It’s complicated. It’s so so so complicated. It’s so complicated in fact that even you fail to understand what it is that you are going through.
All you know is that its really really awful and you need someone… someone to come rescue you… But of course it’s not that simple. It’s not.

Crying wouldn’t help either. No. You want someone to sweep you off your feet, to some magical wonderland and you want them to understand – that it should only be about you tonight. That you are tired and exhausted pretending and need to let it out… the anger the hurt… the tears… but you can’t.
It’s complicated.
It’s just one of those days.

Athena looked towards the broken glass and for a minute she felt like she was back in her horrific childhood. She had been eight when she came home one day to find a frightening chill hovering over her house.

She slowly prayed to God for her instincts to be wrong. But as she made way into the house she realized her prayers weren’t being answered anytime soon. She called for her mother as she and her brother entered the hallways. But they never got a reply. Quickly she made way into the bedroom and saw the figure of her mom lying on the bed. But instead of greeting them like usual she began crying in delirium and Athena realized how serious the matter was when she saw her face. It was swollen to one side and an eye was turning black already. He had done it again.

Athena heard sounds which failed to form legible words come from her mother’s trembling lips. She felt an urge to be mother to her own parent, and hugged her. Then left the younger brother in the room and went for the phone. She had the doctor’s number memorized by now. “Its my mom,” she told him, “she fell off the stairs,” the lie came naturally.

…………..

Athena knew that sometimes kids paid for their parents mistakes and she had come to terms with this reality early on.

This is why everytime her father injured her or her brother, or beat her mom, she told herself sooner or later she would come out of it alive. It was only a matter of time. So everytime her father made his routine beatings and then cried and begged for their forgiveness, Athena waited for the day to arrive when she would let him know that she had never forgiven him.

……….

That day came and went, and Athena realized one day that her father had turned into a fragile old man, alone in life from his own faults, who wished to have a second chance. But there were no second chances in life. He could neither return the vengeful children their lost childhoods, nor could he restore his wife a youth she had never been able to enjoy completely. The pain was long gone but the hurt remained still, etched in their memories and hearts forever. The way he had not only hurt but insulted them each time. That insult would fashion all their personalities for years to come. He couldn’t even ask to be trusted, for trust is fragile and cannot be summoned up at will. All he had then, was a love, that nature bound them with. A love without care, expectation or even hope

. Her mother had once told her that she felt disgusted by her husband so much he had seemed like a stranger in bed. Yet when Athena asked her why she remained married to him, her mother had only one response: “its complicated.” Athena failed to understand what that meant – until now. —-

And the multi colored pieces of broken glass reminded Athena how she had stumbled onto a relationship so different from her mother’s and yet so much alike. He was nothing like her father. He was so much more of a companion to her than anyone else had ever been. But then it happened. It was more horrible than she had ever imagined it would be. With every episode she felt like she had lost a part of herself. A part that trusted and respected him. But each time he asked to be forgiven, she would. But forgiving was not the same thing as forgetting. She could ask her heart to love him unconditionally again, but she couldnt stop her mind from throwing those painful memories at her at the strangest of times. And

the worst part of those memories were the glimpses of his eyes glaring at her, spitting respite. As if in those moments she had ceased to be his cherished love and had turned into a cockroach he wanted to crush under his feet. A thing he hated so much he wasn’t afraid to break it. And then came the insult. The insult of knowing that she was no longer the apple of eyes. The degradation his blows caused became a part of her everyday life. When other husbands talked highly of their wive_* and showed love for them she felt uncomfortable, remembering the dark side of their relationship which was completely healthy otherwise. She couldn’t fathom how someone who loved her so much one moment could hate her so completely the next.

All of it had become “complicated”.

——

She reached into the drawer for the pregnancy stick she had meant to show him. The plastic stick gave life to a dream they had always had. A dream of holding a tiny baby in her arms. The maternal part of her struck her emotions and she cried. For herself, for the arriving baby and for the loss of a love so profound.

He saw her crying and came over, and instinctively she hid the pregnancy stick from him. He coaxed and cajoled for a while and she did not know even how to react. He vowed again he would not do this again. As much as she wanted to believe him, she knew better now. She knew children sometimes paid for the mistakes their parents made. That was why she scheduled an abortion without telling him.

She couldn’t do to someone else what her mom had done to her, just because she wanted a kid. That was just selfish. That night, Athena too had to sleep with a stranger in her bed.

Okay fine so its not really like a list. Initially it was just this one guy who keeps throwing thesaurus slathered meaningless sentences on my hubby’s facebook

Here is an excerpt from his blog :

“Intermission: Pakistan became the silent statue to attract global excoriation__ the safe havens for terrorists__the nation-state whose nationals are terrorists. The rationale of the world becomes so bogus when it comes to understanding the reality of Pakistanis. 

   The nation-state has been ubiquitously pregnant with domestic imbroglio and is very anti-Islamic because of having multiple fathers. But then this political quagmire is as old as the stars, with changing covers. The world knows it full well that this God forsaken nation is creative enough to carve out new ways to forget history–an entity that must be considered as a pedagogue.”

And just to prove this is NOT fake and to perhaps read some other quotes of virtue: www.imranjan.wordpress.com

Whether this title is due to my reborn allure for the blood sucking vengeance of Lestat, or due to the fact tht iv just finished reading ‘The Witch of Portobello’, no one will ever know. But one things for sure, ‘wives’ have an amazingly savvy sixth sense about their darling husbands. I can tell exactly what point during a meal it is that riz tries to catch a glimpse of fine ass, even if im half way lost in the world’s best prawn chowmein. I can also tell whether the person on the other end of the phone has an adams apple or not. Now seriously, thats gotta be monumental, right?

The argument remains that it just might be that he just isnt as cultivated at all this as some other husband may be, but heck, hes a guy – ofcourse hes ‘cultivated’. Then is it just me, or do women really do have what they call ’sixth sense’ about that kind of thing? I dont know. Maybe you could enlighten me.

Which reminds me of an interesting dialogue in Ally Mc beal about what kind of  human being wants to walk around in shoes that are tilting your feet at the most unnerving position, are extremely uncomfortable, can aid slipping n getting hurt, and give u back problems. The answer? Only a woman can. Which in turn reminds me of how stupid this whole deal is. Women get painful threading, waxing, and what not procedures to keep up the illusion that they are born that way. In addition to that they also learn how to make it look like lip glosses stay on for several hours (they dont) and how to get a home pedicure while cooking aloo gobhi for rizwan (they do). Now im not saying we should all go ‘au naturale’ whiskers et all at the next pool party, but can we atleast go low on the terrible heels!

And that said, isnt it freaky that women spend hours n wads of cash on manicures, yet men never remember the color of our nailpolish! The other day riz located my half hidden stash of nailcolors n i think he went blank for a while. ‘I dont ever see u use that stuff!’ ‘thats because i apply it when you r out!’ i say. ’see?’ i flaunted the freshly applied wine colored nails in front of him. ‘really?’and then, with a smile, ‘ thats just freaky.’ It seemed to me like he was saying “really? You were born without color changing magic nails?”

Then again not all men are like that. Some men do know about these things a little more than is neccessary.

We have a friend who is as obviously ‘happy’ (read; gay) as tom cruise has so obviously ‘lost it’. He does in fact remember every shade of nailcolor i have ever worn. He could do a better inventory of my wardrobe than i possibly could. But he likes to play a little game. The ‘i-am-straight-okay’ game. He tries to give out half hearted coos at women, he even throws gay jokes at other people. And the final straw came last week when he told us he was getting engaged- to a girl. This makes me wonder, what is he doing? Why do such ppl not think about the poor woman involved? Isnt this like a crime< God.

Anyway, im gonna cut this right here, and you guys wait for my next blog, which will be about the worlds most stupidest desi blogs. for real.

HELLO PEOPLE!

YES IT IS TRUE, THE MUCH AWAITED PROLOGUE OF MY NOVEL IS OUT NOW :p YOU GUYS CAN PREVIEW IT HERE.

HAPPY READING.

KARACHI DIARIES – CHAPTER ONE

KARACHI – SUMMER 2002: KIREN OMER

ONE

She hated this sweltering heat of the tropical city afternoon. That was perhaps the only thing she didn’t enjoy about this city that she otherwise treasured with all her heart. This city that held past memories and future promises for her. If only it wasn’t so hot! She thought to herself, tugging at the lawn doppatta that covered her. And if only I didn’t have to take the bus today, she told herself. She didn’t really have to take the bus to university. But she liked the freedom of a bus over a van, and she couldn’t afford cab charges because she had spent most of her pocket money on the new shoes she would show off in the high school reunion this weekend. Riding in a bus for a few days was completely worth it.

Kiren glanced over at the lanky woman in the washed-out scruffy cotton sari who reeked of cheap detergent. She must have been a maid, like the one who worked in Kiren’s house. She felt sorry for the woman who was obviously quite old and looked so weary of life, as if living had exhausted her completely and she could collapse anytime. If a woman had to go do housework in this age she definitely had a lot of other unhappiness in her life as well. She wondered if the woman had done this always or whether she had come upon bad times later in her life. Either way Kiren was grateful for herself, grateful that she did not have to do what the woman did to survive. She was thankful for her dreams of marrying her Prince Charming, thankful for her good grades and thankful she did not have to ride in this rusty vehicle everyday.

Even Malika had taken the bus today. She must have bought something nice for the reunion as well, Kiren told herself. Was it shoes? What if Malika had gotten the same heels she had got? They would end up looking so stupid. But unlike her, Malika had so many stilettos already; she must have used the money on something else. Maybe that new tote bag she showed me in the magazine that day. She looked over at her and found Malika engrossed in the usual Mills & Boons paperback. Maybe she has bought herself more of those silly romance novels! Kiren couldn’t believe anyone would use their money so uselessly.

If Kiren ever bought a book it would have been something serious. She liked books that showed her a glimpse of the world out there or gave her something back like wisdom, faith or even hope. She had plenty of such books at home, books that told her about the charming romance of Paris, the fashionable grace of Milan, the exciting freedom of New York, the mystery of the Egyptian Pyramids and the ancient splendor of Athens. Her latest divulgence was metaphysics and there was a new title she had been meaning to buy, but this reunion came up and she couldn’t bear to wear the boring flats her mom was always buying her. So she had to buy the shoes. Because people usually cared what shoes you wore and she couldn’t go about wearing old fashioned loafers and tell everyone she had all those books at home. People didn’t want to hear about these things and she wanted to be to be cared about at the reunion.

The bus was full of university people so the crowd wasn’t too bad that day. Some days it was filled with foul smelling rotund men who gave her awful glares. They even smoked their cheap cigarettes and the stink became overbearing for her. She always ended up feeling nauseous when those types were around. She always wondered how their wives could stand to live with them. If there was anything she loathed more than cigarette smoke, it was men with mal-odor.

And if there was anything she loved more than Paris, it was men with the smell of Paris. She adored those grown-up men who constantly wore business suits and designer cologne. She wondered then why God had given her someone like him. He was the antithesis of all she admired with his rough charm, lack of knowledge and immaturity about so many things. He watched all those cheesy Indian movies. She wished he would try to read more books. But not corny romances like Malika of course. What she wanted was a man who could converse for hours on a number of different subjects – about world politics, social issues and Greek history. And more than everything she wished for someone whose life was more than his dad’s grocery store. She wondered how amazing it would be if she found someone who taught her something new! How nice it would be if there was someone she could have something to converse with for hours and hours into the night. With him it was always the usual boring stuff she didn’t even care about like cricket and local gossip.

She checked her cell phone for any messages or calls from him. But the clock on the screen glared back. She took out the fake channel mirror and checked her lipstick. Perfect, she thought and put the mirror back. When she looked ahead, out of the bus, she almost skipped a beat.

She was almost there. All of sudden she began to perspire, nervous and unsure. A part of her wanted to skip this ordeal and keep going in the bus until her own house came into view. But she knew he would be angry if she did that, and she couldn’t stand losing him. She remembered how Malika had defined him once – ruggedly handsome.

He was like one of the characters in those Judith McNaught novels she had borrowed from Malika. Tall, dark and roguish – just like Ms. McNaught described Royce Westmoreland in A Kingdom of Dreams. The thought of Asim in a dark ponytail wearing a 15^th century white cotton ruffled shirt, bare chest on show and old-style black pants made her giggle. The thought made her feel a little better about this. Sometimes she couldn’t believe her luck. She must have something in her that made him like her. He was twenty, and at Kiren’s sixteen years, that seemed a whole lot older.

She checked her cell phone again. Still nothing. If it was someone else she wouldn’t even have bothered to make this effort. But Asim was not someone else. Asim was Asim, her first love – didn’t they make all kinds of movies on this? ‘Kiren Asim’ she thought with pride. How good that sounded! Of all the girls who would have given anything to be with him, Asim had chosen her to be with him. But there were some things about him she didn’t like. Like he was such an introvert and liked to keep to himself. She on the other hand enjoyed parties and mingling with all sorts of people. But that was okay, she was sure if the time came, she would make all possible changes for him. It didn’t matter how different they were as long as they were in love. Judith McNaught said that too, didn’t she?

Seven times have I despised my soul:

·     The second time when I saw her limping before the crippled.

“Then tell me already! You and every other spiritual geek I’ve ever met, you keep asking me to find myself! Where can I find myself? In those self-help books, or in religion, in this dope joint that you’ve been sharing with me? Where?”

“have you read Khalil Gibran?” she asked me. “Of course I have.” I told her proudly. “Tell me what you think of him?” she said and lit another joint. “I think he’s a brilliant. He’s so talented… his words… wow! Love his work.” I explained; glad that finally we may have found common ground.

“Recite to me something of his,” she puffed.

I couldn’t really remember. “I can’t remember anything right now!”

“That’s because you only read the words. You don’t remember what they were about.”

“That’s not true!”

“Why do you get defensive? Why do you have to be good at everything?”

I was silent. “I don’t know.”

She smiled at me, and there was so much love in her eyes. Then she lay back against the wall.

“What do you really want to know?”

“Why am I here?”

“You are here because you wanted to have a smoke, with me.”

“No silly! Why am I on this earth?”

“Would it have made a difference if you were on any other planet?”

“No! Look, you know what I mean!”

“I know exactly what you mean, but you don’t. You aren’t even asking the right questions.”

I didn’t know how to defend that. What was she talking about?

I thought she may have a retort, but she just waited. And I waited for her.

“Come on. Ask me, the real question that’s bothering you.”

And then from somewhere inside me, this spilled out.

“I’m so afraid, of going to hell.”

“And yet, you are here.”

“That’s just it. I don’t understand why I do these things.”

“Humans make mistakes.”

“What about you? Why are you here?”

“Well, I’m human too. What did you think?”

“And you know its wrong, and you are here, doing this?” I held out the joint.

She laughed.

“You are so naïve. You basically want someone to tell you that doing drugs and having pre-marital, illegal sex is not wrong? So you can do it without having a guilty conscience?”

I felt ashamed. I was sure she could see me blush from this distance. I wondered what to say, but she was talking again.

“You are lucky you know that? People do lots of evil things and don’t even get a guilty conscience. If that little voice inside is bugging you, you should be thankful you have it. And try not to kill it.”

My house says to me, “Do not leave me, for here dwells your past.”

And I say to both my house and the road, “I have no past, nor have I a future. If I stay here, there is a going in my staying; and if I go there is a staying in my going.

Only love and death will change all things.”

She recited this Khalil Gibran verse and looked at me, perhaps waiting for some kind of acknowledgement.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Have you heard of metaphysics?”

“Yes, I have. Time fourth dimension and all that,”

“You see, even scientists have proved it now, that the time we are living in, is only earth based. The rest of the galaxy has no ‘time limitation’, you understand?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“So that’s basically it. The core philosophy – we humans are confined in this time until we die. And then, we get freedom from this particular imprisonment. So what we call the past and future is just a moment’s worth in the REAL time – the TIME of God’s universe, which is beyond all this. So basically what we call ‘death’, is simply a different time frame.”

“So past doesn’t matter?”

 “Of course it does, just not in the way you think. That’s the duality of existence.”

“Why does everyone who can explain this become so ‘philosophical’ and confusing!”

“Okay let me talk in science terms. When a scientist tells you that photon is a particle which has wave-like properties, which means, basically, that photons are both wave and particles at the same time, do you believe him? Do you understand him?”

“Yes I have begun to understand that.”

“Yet when I explain existence the same way you freak out. If a person, who has never read a book of physics in his life, gets told ‘a photon can be a particle and a wave’, how do you think that person reacts? He doesn’t believe it! To him ANYTHING has always either been a particle OR a wave! Never both!”

It began to make sense. “Hmmm. I think I get it.”

She smiled again. “Yes, I know you do.”

There was still one question left. “How do I find myself?”

Her smile was wider. “I told you, it’s always the last place you look.”

“Stop being so vague! Tell me!”

“You know what the problem is? You want to be like me. Me and every other calm, content spiritual-looking person. Isn’t that true?”

I couldn’t agree to that. And I couldn’t disagree, because I knew how true that was.

“Just because a person looks ‘spiritual’ doesn’t mean they are any better off than you are. It’s just a fantasy. I am like this because I have always been like this, this is me! This is not YOU! And you, sweetheart, are perfect the way you are! Innocent and cute!”

I felt stupid and elated.

“You know, Khalil Gibran said ,“Only once have I been made mute. It was when a man asked me, “Who are you?”"

“A lot of saints and spiritual people have said that.”

“Yes, they have. And that was because they were just as curious as you are, dear girl.”

“But they know, don’t they?”

“Maybe they do, but it’s difficult to explain.”

“Why is it difficult to explain?”

“Because these limited words of any limited language are not enough to describe it! They are not enough to describe so many things, don’t you think so? Like first kisses and happiness, and love. There is no way to describe those things because of our language confines.”

“Paolo Coelho! The Alchemist! The language of the soul!” I interjected.

She chuckled. “Yes. I know what you mean. And Gibran says:

 We were fluttering, wandering, longing creatures a thousand years before the sea and the wind in the forest gave us words. Now how can we express the ancient of days in us with only the sounds of our yesterdays?”

I smiled. “You are right. I think I understand now,” I felt lighter now, happier, and I threw the joint away, crippling it under my heels. I don’t think I’ll need this,” I told her.

She got up, and threw the box of cigarettes at me. “All yours,” she said.

“Where are you off to?” I asked her, seeing that she was all ready to go.

She didn’t reply, just came closer to me, and sat on bended knee. I saw that look in her eyes again, of love, perhaps some lust, I had to admit, and I couldn’t understand it. She ruffled my hair. “I love you,” she said as her lips moved to my forehead.

And then, as I sat there, waiting, “So now you know how easy it is to fall in love with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are such a lovely person. Anyone can fall in love with you,” Her face was so close to mine I could feel her strawberries-and-cigarettes breath.

But then, I forced my drugged eyes open and looked at her. “You didn’t answer one question,” I said.

“Which one?” she questioned, carressing me with her words, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear.

“Where can I find myself?”

She chuckled. Then got up.

“Always the last place you look, baby.” She said, and vanished into thin air.

I like it tht blogs were invented. I can now be the Carrie Bradshaw of our desi metropolitan. On the blogosphere, no one can make you do ‘a few changes here and there’ like they do on television, and you know anything goes.

A few years back I met someone online, one of those platonic relationships in which we were
simply each others muse. We belonged to different countries, had absolutely no intention of
ever seeing each other hence, we could talk in ’stranger’ mode. I used to be a graphic designer back then. Working for an ad agency that felt like home. But all hell broke lose when one fine day he told me he thought my writing was simply amazing, that I should write more often, and think about doing it professionally. I don’t think it ever occurred to me that perhaps he was simply being polite.

So when someone asked Xill to write a book, i was extremely impressed when i heard him be modest about his writing and dint take it seriously. I mean I for one am a huge fan of his writing! I wish I had adopted similar attitude back then. Because its a whole new world out there when you are writing for people who generally agree that I am the best thing that happened to television since caffiene, but when I do write, they want to take all me out of it and write what basically everyone else is writing.

Because its different when you write about the general frustration of existence and survival and its your answer to YOGA. Anywho… As I was saying, back then I began showing my muse my short stories, wrote to him about my personal dilemmas n sumwhr in thr it dawned on me – I wanted to make movies someday. And boy was that ‘revelation’ a kick in the butt.

For as long as i can remember i have made movies. None of them have ever made onto television screens or film theatres, but they have been made. In my bedroom which I once turned into a dragon moat; in my head where I was a mixture of Xena – warrior princess and Beauty of beauty and the beast; In my attic which my brother and I once turned into a camping site. The various hotel rooms in which we were best friends and spy-mates of James Bond.

I remember printing out fake boarding cards on our dot-matrix and spelling out our names with the wierdest Irish surnames.

Even though my brother and I both were into this imagination game, he was smart enough to take up Cost Accounting when he grew up. And i was the dumb idiot who took my imagination to another level. A level where it was no longer simply mine. It was my producers’, or directors’ or what nots.

It was too late to begin studying again (once you start earning money you need to keep earning money somehow) and no one wanted to hire me as a director obviously – so I got into writing as a start. Just to learn the ropes. Learn the ropes I did. I went in to learn how to implement my creativity and learned how apply office politics. Yes people, we live in a world where television is more about ‘how to win your boss’s donut’ than it is about making your passion come alive. Thankfully though, everyone in media even is not like that. There are lots of people who actually do it for the passion and people who encourage you.

 Whether n how I ‘learned the ropes’ is an entire spicy paperback on its own, but one thing in my life had changed for good – my confidence in my ability to write. And all because one person gave me a good review.

Right now though, I can see so many things that are changing. The creative people are winning over the politically correct ones, because you can see so much improvement. I dont quite feel so bad about all this right now.