Parting Shot

This is going to be the last post on this blog.
No, I neither doubt my writing ability nor cry over my lack of inspiration. This is just the end of a chapter in my life.
I started blogging because I loved the freedom it gave me to express my thoughts, hopes, opinions, but now, the feeling is more like despair - I feel I have lost the capacity to be open, free and express what I actually want without worrying who read it, who didn't.
Of course my fiction blog (Two A Day) will remain active as long as an idea or two keeps cropping up.
I am delighted with my decision because I know I am doing the right thing.
I am not deleting this space (although I feel guilty about contributing to the e-waste) simply because of the comment space that connected me to some wonderful bloggers out there.

So, to those few tenacious readers who still take the trouble of visiting this site, I bid adieu - heartfelt thanks for all the affection.

The Dairy Ghost

I dream of Curd. Yogurt. Buttermilk. Butter. Milk.
And they can be categorized as dreams (the meaningless, useless ones without any clues to hidden treasures or something equally fanciful) or full-fledged nightmares.

Category I – I see myself getting into this beautiful house, huge and well lit. The lights are bright and has this milky-white, typical dreamlike quality. The furniture is white, the bed – ah, the humongous bed is covered with sparkling white sheet. The pillows appear so full, fluffy and light: just like freshly made butter. I see the house is full of people and I am supposed to cook a large, tasty meal. (Yet another horror story from my repository that gets dealt separately in other dreams) All I can find, in that ridiculously large kitchen, is milk. Bucketfuls. Now how the hell is one supposed to cook delicacies with milk and milk alone?
I panic. I choke. I wake up.

Category II – I am walking towards the ocean. And the ocean is made up of buttermilk. I can see huge blobs of butter floating like giant icebergs. I get a nauseating feeling; I want to run back home. But the waves come crashing. I get flung into the ocean. I didn’t find Lord Vishnu anywhere nearby to save me (the breaker of my sleep – probably somewhere in his own dreamland, snoring)
I panic. I choke. I wake up.

For the past two weeks I have been haunted by the Dairy Ghost, if I can call it that. Just when my eye-lids are drooping with promise of a dreamless, deep sleep and a hopeful fresh beginning, a mad thought creeps in – of having to wake up at hours that I dread. At a time when I am sure even the birds are having dreamless, deep sleep, the milkman gets us milk.

Cow’s, buffalo’s or donkey’s milk - who the hell cares? Can he not come at a saner time and ring the bell only once? The nonexistent fat in the milk is definitely not going to kill me, I know. It is the doorbell that will give me a massive heart attack one of these days. I wonder if it is the Devil himself dressing up as the persistent milkman, making sure I don’t get my share of white clouds, bards and halos.
On second thoughts, I don’t think I need those white clouds. Those light, fluffy white clouds. Reminds me of…

Mooning over Millennium city..

Jazzy, isn’t it? This is how the ‘millennium city’ looked on the full moon night from my terrace.
I have realized how lonely Rapunzel must have felt in her tower; in my case, the lovely large terrace being the only saving grace. And I can’t even sing.
Not doing absolutely anything is becoming a routine here. I feel my muscles are slowly getting used to this. Warning: If this post sounds a little crummy, you should know – I am just checking if my fingers are working.

Well, I admit I am exaggerating but I am not at fault; Gurgaon is doing this to me. A brand new place: Ideally I should get excited about knowing, seeing and exploring things around. However, the initial vibes I get from this place can be called as, at best, mixed.

I cannot really go out anywhere, without any help. Of course it is not like Potter has stopped me from going anywhere; he would love it if I ventured out – on my own, without hoping and waiting for him to escort me around. Poor fella is stuck in office with neck deep work. For once, I would love to swap places. The season has not yet been the reason to avoid going out – it is still pleasant, thank God.
The real story behind this self imposed imprisonment is quite simple actually - there is no public transportation. No autos, no buses.
Yes, I know for those who have already been here, it’s no big surprise, but come on, I am entitled to be appalled by this. The other day, I had to had to go to the market (there are no shops nearby within the radius of one km, and I don’t live in a jungle) and I had to get into this cycle rickshaw.
One can only imagine how embarrassing it can be when one has to do it the first time. During the entire journey, I felt as if people on the street were staring at me as if I was the spectacle. But if one were to ask Potter, he would chuckle and say no such things occur – there are usually no people walking on the street, either they vroom and zoom in fancy cars or taking cycle rickshaws just like you, which makes them and you equal.
Finally when I reached the destination I sighed in relief, just wanting to jump out of the rickshaw – but the seat is designed by a retired acrobat, and there is a noble intention behind such design. It is to ensure people like me remember their former glory, give them the respect due and not take risks of jumping to end up somewhere near the pedals, all knotted.

How I miss all those small little general stores, the Food World, the dry cleaners! and most importantly, the eateries – all those little Darshini outlets… I don’t want idli dosas no, but something, anything as long as they are nearby? Funny thing is when I was in Bangalore, I did not visit them often; it now feels like they were the heritage sites that I missed out while being on a historical tour.

Oh, I don’t know, I really can’t rant and rave about this place since I have not yet explored it completely. But, yes, the malls – well, they are a different story altogether.

Parting

The last post from this system, from this location, from this office! Sigh....

As expected, getting out of this organization was in not the usual "will miss you my workstation, laptop, my tea cup, (or ocassionally) a colleague" drama style, but the last few pangs of separation pain are slowly making their presence felt.

A cut above the rest

Have you ever been compared to Shah Rukh Khan? What’s the big deal – you’d think. After all, there is nothing extraordinary about him: looks or otherwise.
Exactly.
But if you were a girl, who is not his sister/relative or, do not have any similarities in any manner, then it is quite unusual.
I had the misfortune of having such dubious distinction recently. Nope, it is not my looks either, excuse me. The blame completely goes to my hairstylist.
Just Imagine, I spend almost a fortune to get a nice, wavy haircut (well, at least that’s what I thought) from a trendy, upmarket salon and come home to flaunt it in front of my aunt. And I get to hear this: ‘Hey, you look just like SRK; he has the same hair cut in Pepsi ad!’
Oh, by the way, if one wants to disagree on the ‘extraordinariness’ (rather, lack of it) and start an argument regarding SRK, we can do it in another post.
But for now, where do I go to get another stylist?