The Procrastination Bug

The hardest thing in the world is to plonk your ass down and write.

Disagree? Let me tell you something: I've been trying to finish a novel that's been in my head since I was 11 years old. I had my 16th birthday a few weeks ago. Agree now?

No matter how many 'How to Motivate Yourself to Write' pages you read online, no matter how many times you beat your computer at Solitare, no matter how much you sleep, no matter how many long walks you take, you still need to have that writing material in front of you and a pen in your hand. You still need to put that pen to the paper and start scribbling words. You still need to open MS Word and type out what you need.

And that's exactly what you can't do. Why? Because you're lazy. Because you procrastinate. Because in a few years time, you're gonna have a paunch and bigger-sized clothes from all the sleeping you've been doing. Because you never plonk your ass down and just WRITE.

When you do open MS Word and start typing though, words flow like water. Which is why I make blog posts and do not write chapters. Because I'm always looking to 'exercise' my writing skills so I can make a start on the book. But no, The Procrastination Bug comes down and bites. Hard.

Now you know why my personal blog has been 'dormant' for years. :L

The Return Of The Passport

Heylao peeples. 


That is so off-me. Hello people. Technically, it wouldn't be wrong if I wrote 'peoples'. That is so, because people of the world, as a collective group can be referred to as peoples. And so, peoples, as I am coming to it, I have become a part of 'peoples', which is to say, that if and when I am stranded on an island (that has a government :P), I am entitled, as a part of the peoples of the world, to get help from my country's embassy. 


Like, they'll have to help me get medicines even in Antarctica if I happen to catch a cold. But wait! Antarctica does not have a government. And you don't catch a cold there. Losers.


Anyway, moving to greener pastures. To dark-bluer passports. That postman at the post office asked me if my mom had sent with me, some chai-pani    in plain words, a bribe. I had two hundred and fifty bucks in my pocket. 


I told him, no, she hadn't. And she really hadn't, suspicion-personifieds! It was just money that I was carting around. And he told me it's a passport. And that, therefore, chai-pani was, uh, mandatory.


Chai-pani, mandatory, the world's foot. And he's going to come home, he told me, to ask for chai-pani. My mom's not home, so I am going to do a plainly good job driving him away or to the Anti-Corruption Bureau. 


And I never told you before that today's was my first visit to a post office. And for those cynics amongst you who think there always has to be a first, this is, I hope, also my last visit to that dingy place. Looked like an over-sized laundry.


And there is something more dismal about my passport. I opened my passport booklet. It has my photo and information about me. I thought they might have 'more info' about me on the inside pages. 

Apparently, those were *sniff sniff* blank. 

What a waste.

Lucky Bhadrakali

Hello. I envy Goddess Kali. She had so many hands! And I'm guessing [(whatever number of hands) divided by 2] heads. And I so wish I had some thirty hands. Not asking for too much, am I? 

Since yesterday, I have been wanting to text, talk over the phone, write a blogpost, write some *other* write-ups, revise some Sanskrit, read The Da Vinci Code, do some math, do some riyaaz, to be quite basic. But see, I have only two hands and only a single brain! And oh, oh, oh. I mustn't forget watching Dexter.

I don't like Dexter anymore because Rita is dead. And I liked her characterisation the best. And so many things could have prevented her death   she could have not returned home to get whatever crap she needed, or she could have turned up late, or she could have never met Dexter, or Dexter could have never met Arthur or interfered in his life, or Arthur could have not had the terrible childhood he had had. But could I have been not as much of a stupid emo person that I am? 

Maybe.

And I hate it when friends call you over and then cancel the plan. Loserness. Mine or theirs? Oh, well, I need to have a fight with my I-shall-contradict-your-reasoning-abilities-in-whichever-way-possible alter-ego. 

And Sharvari aai isn't totally wrong. 

A pillow fight sounds juuust fine. 

Classes

I had a nice time with my gal pals the other day. Though I know Jai baba doesn't mind fluffy pillow fights and shopping stories (believe me, I did neither of these. Never will.) but- though they include a very interesting card game, jokes about my vegetarianism, and falling oover each other while wrapped in thick blankets - I won't go into all that. What I am here to talk about is my train journey on the way back home.

My friend lives in Andheri. Since it's accessible by the Western Line Railway, I had to go all the way to Dadar by Central Line, then cross over and double back to Andheri. I was tired enough when I got into the wrong train at Dadar on my way back, but after I got into the right one, something really pissed me off. A quarrel had started in the compartment. Quarrels are rare in First Class, but when they do come up, civilised women fight like no barbaric ones you've seen before. As usual, it was over seating space. I don't understand why the Railway ministers don't enlarge the Central Ladies' First Class compartments like in the Western Railway, but that's another matter altogether.

After a while, as I was waiting in line to alight at Mulund, I heard the girl who'd been quarrelling come up behind me with her friend. She was still ranting. I listened in (What? Admit it. You'd have done it too) and was appalled to hear what had really happened. Apparently, a Second-class-dikhne-wali female had got into our compartment. As always, the women in the train bristled at her and asked her to show them her ticket. Turns out she did have a First Class ticket.

The woman behind me had a problem with her Second Class behaviour. Angrez chale gayein, inko chhod gayein.

Are we really like this? I hate to admit it, but whenever a cheap-sari-clad, dark woman gets into the compartment, I have a nagging doubt in my mind as to whether she is allowed where she is. I never think at first sight that perhaps she is a hard-working, self-reliant woman who has bought her ticket through her own earnings. Some feminist I am. Until we change our mentality, progress - change - cannot be achieved. Are some prejudices so ingrained that sheer will power cannot uproot them? I am a feminist because I want to be one. I am a vegetarian because I want to be one. But again it comes down to Nature vs. Nurture.

For some reason, Nuture always wins.

What It Takes To Set Your Foot Out. Like, Out.

And you thought of vestments and money and and your toothbrush and Listerine, duh! Well, you don't actually fly unless vous êtes votre passeport. And ask me, it does not come easy. Well, to date, hasn't.

I literally started wishing making passports were like making yearbooks, as easy as holding those little crayon pieces and drawing myself and writing my address and about myself. A burnt child dreads fire.


A harrowed Jai dreads the queue.


Yeah, especially when you have to get out of the queue if your forgot to bring a certain document. Oof, saying "Ma'am, I didn't bring my Homeworknotebook" at school would be easier than explaining why you did not bring what you did not, to the person behind the counter. No, the bullet-proof counter. 


And then, not to forget, this is Hindustan भारत/ India, and so, you must know that it is not odd to log in with your passport details on the Web on the 28th of April, only to be told that your passport will be despatched on the 26th of April. Losers.


Well, so now that I have no US trip to look forward to, I can be an idiot-companion to Sharvari aai. And I have many small things to be happy about now. Like books. Like yummy fooood. Like my bicyle. Like friends. Like Maths. The last one possibly does not count. :P

Yes, I'm back. And yes, I have news.

Hello, my babies. Missed me? I certainly didn't miss you (read: Jai didn't let me with around 463 messages a day). Ah well. My trip to Talegaon was fantastic, for those of you who care. Trees, trees and more trees. Long walks through mountain paths, a white swing set, books, and a granny that can only be described as 'cool'. The wind in my hair, fresh air in my lungs and good food in my stomach. Oh, did I mention the fabulous inspiration coming from the surroundings? What more does a writer want?

The news I was talking about: for some reason, both my other blog and this one have hits from the USA and Malaysia. The other one has hits from Russia (Russia!) and the UAE, among other countries. I don't know any Russians, I swear. What about you, Jai baba?

I think we need to promote this blog a little. I officially hand over the Marketing Department to my fellow blogger. I'm sure he'll do a great job. He has friends who read blogs (:P)...

Adieu, for now!

Birthdays

Well, 'like dad, like son' they say. I would prefer 'like parent, unlike child'. 
*ahem ahem* It's, for now, 'like Sharvari aai, like Jai baba'.


Amazingly, differences form the basis for similarities. For we find similarities, only because differences exist, too.


And I take the liberty (of course, after attributing the first line to Sharvari) to begin with the now clichéed sentence.


Birthdays and I have a weird relation.


Birthdays. They tell you you must act your age. They tell you you went around the sun as many times as you have had days when people wish you a happy birthday. They tell you how you must rejoice Creation if you are to mourn Destruction. Well, they tell me much more.


I shall call my birthdays, days of excess, if I may. 


However, I celebrate birthdays, considering I have my 'celebratory' rights intact. That said, it is like the tank that is about to overflow overflows after it can hold no more. Birthdays, to me, officially, are a splurge-friendly day. I can get what I want on that day. Like, this time, I got an electronic tanpura. It is like being what I am not, the other 364/365 days. For which, I have to think before I spend each Rs. 20 note in my wallet. Like, "Couldn't I skip it? Skipping it isn't worth a tanpura?"


On the other hand, I prefer to call it a day of excess, because I am conditioned in a way that I must have something new that day, go to a good clothing store, and get decked up that one day. Never realised why. Like, even if I choose laziness to be my way to spend my day, it doesn't have to be really fulfilled. Birthdays are supposed to be joyous, awesome, and enthusiastic. Officially.


That, to me, is birthdays.

You Wish Blogspot Were Twitter When Writers' Block Infects You. Swear.

Doesn't the title speak for itself?




Why am I doing this?




Because Writers' Block won't allow me to write anything good. That Loser. Here it comes. To hit me.




But I am powerful, am I not? Well, I know Sharvari is not here to say "Yes, Jai, go for it!" but of course, the void can voice it out, can't it?




See, it did. I came thinking I might end up losing to Writers' Block, not being able to write a single sentence that made sense, even to me. I don't guarantee that all this makes sense to you peoples, but yeah, it makes a lot of sense to me.




And thus, Writers' Block v/s. Jai Baba:




The judgement remains unchanged.




The writer weeeeens.


Oh, er, well. What was I going to write on the next line? :O

Without Twilight

Hehawhaw.

And oh, yeah, shesawsaw.

This is Jai baba, and the blog is in my hands for until 26th April *wink wink*, when Sharvari aai will be baaaaaaack. Fully refreshed, and possibly, pleasantly hit by another wave of feminist delight. Phew. So let's see what I've got here...

Time. A looooot of it. Work. Supplementary, but nevertheless useful-for-the-future. But no intention to begin today. And since the definition of today changes everyday, it is meowish and lazy to sit in front of the computer all day and have no one to talk to. 

And I have thought of a word for what stereotypical pigs (like I was at one time, one time being not more than two days ago) refer to as 'blond'. And not the physically 'blond'. Well, 'zany'. It's short and sweet and fun. And the best part is, it works. It frigging works!

And now I'll go watch Khuda Kay Liye. Have spent nights wishing for that CD. Havit now. 

So, until next time, which possibly is tomorrow, M-E-O-W. 

La Naissance Et La Mort

Okay, so here is my theory of why we should celebrate birthdays, even if they are made to look insignificant by those around us.

When we take birth, it's Creation that is happening. I told Sharvari this morning that it's not because you got created that we celebrate birthdays, but because you got created that we do. We see so many people around us. Most of us do things for ourselves. Like the monkey that places it's baby beneath its foot before it climbs up to safety. We are, by default, self-centred. But to varying degrees. If God decides to Create and not Destroy you, there must surely be something special about you, right? And then, you walk the tightrope between Death and Life during your birth. And if you survive, you do something special, and so, you get a gift each year. 

Your very own birthday.

So, shielding myself with the adage better very late than never, 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHARVARI!

Birthdays

Birthdays and I have a weird relation.

When I was in school, I was a loner and didn't have many friends. To top that, my birthday always arrived in the summer holidays. Consequently, I didn't get too many birthday wishes. My family, too, has no tradition of giving 'birthdays gifts', as such. They will wish you and prepare a delicacy, but they will not get you something you want or make your day special. They will still scold you or pick out your faults, stating the very fundamental reason: you're grown up now. When I was a kid, I used to throw a party for all the little friends in my building. I eagerly awaited the gifts they would get me...as those were the only ones I got in the whole year. They were usually repetitive: pencil cases, lunch boxes, colouring kits, and the occasional board game. When I turned twelve, I stopped throwing that one party. I got used to not celebrating my birthday. Not only mine, just anyone's birthday. I couldn't understand why it was so special to them, because it wasn't to me.

When I went into college, I'd just turned fifteen. The first few birthdays I came across made me feel insecure, wondering if there was anything wrong with me. Then I learned to be weird, to stand out. I refused my friends' offer to celebrate my birthday. I wasn't used to it; I wasn't comfortable with it. And yet, at 00.00 on April 19, I received so many calls and text messages that I was pleasantly surprised. Among them were some of my closest friends in college. From the crack of dawn, wishes started pouring in on Facebook. It felt nice to be wanted.

I'm still insecure; my family tradition still remains the same. If I want something, I have to ask. That's the rule. But I can't go out and ask for a gift. It makes me feel selfish. Gifts are given without asking for them. If you ask, then it isn't a gift anymore, is it? My friends make me feel loved though. And I love them in return.

I leave for Talegaon tomorrow. I shall be back by the 26th of this month. Till then, the blog is in Jai baba's hands.

Farewell to you all!

Loving What You Love

Blossom, commander and the leader,

Bubbles, she is the joy and the laughter,

Buttercup, she is the toughest fighter.

Which was is your favourite animation series? Mine was The Powerpuff Girls, and was because they don't air it anymore. Losers. Anyway, why I liked it is something I still don't know. And wouldn't want to. But I like it because it's hip, and fun, and liking it is so stereotype-bashing.

Well, since I've begun getting that itch about stereotyping, why are guy babies gifted bikes and cars always and girl babies given dolls and doll-houses? And it would be steep hypocrisy on the part of the West to say it's typically Indian (or safely, Third World) that that happens. Well, we Third World people (at least Indians) never categorised pink as girlish and blue as boyish even though we had, and we still have a million other restricting stereotypes. Like the kitchen being a NO GUY zone. And people pull a face when a girl's into cricket.

Just thought about a very complementing idea. Liz's  Pizu's Pizz's (and I advise you all to read it as Pizz's Pizu's Liz's) first post on the Groupies blog. Like, *ahem ahem* some great person *ahem ahem again* said, when you are born an original, why would you want to die a copy? If we all went by what the world wants us to go by, we wouldn't be humans. If the first person (not necessarily a man like our 3rd standard history text goes) hadn't thought of going against the current and making a wheel, it wouldn't be all the same today. Obviously, not all people in the Stone Age thought of wheels at once. Imagine. We would be going on square wheels today. 

Ouch, that hurts.

And The Beginning Gets Weirder

*tapak tapak takpa kapat*


And that, folks, was my keyboard. Uh, well, not opening, but typing. I don't have a mental pen, but nor do I have a keyboard. And when I write, I literally throw out words. Well, then, what brings a mental-pen-wielding-Chewy-writing typing Sharvari and an instinctive raw-words-spewing-format-manic Jai to write something as weird as; (pardon my limited imagination today); uh, weirdness.


To begin with : feminism, environmental conservation, individualism and/or individuality (and no, they are not exactly the same) , complex theoretical issues, enigmatic and curiosity-inspiring lives   almost all coming to one word. Different. Fr. Terry told us once, that there is no such thing as weirdness. It is differentness. Like Terry's accented Hindi. I called it funny. He called my accented English funny (which I think will get better in time), and then told me that things may be funny to one and not necessarily to another. But different, they are.


Like è and ë are similar-sounding, but not the same. They are different. Like each person has his her their own fingerprint and tongueprint.


And this blog stands for the right of an individual to what is theirs; for the right of an individual to question as to why it can't be tongueprint if it can be fingerprint; for the right of an individual to find everything in what they profess; for the right of an individual in realising that everything, as it boils down to that something, boils down, actually, to nothing. That Everythingness could be, and usually is, Nothingness. 

Weird Beginnings

*squeak squeak*

That was the sound of my mental pen opening. It's a ritual to be followed whenenver I start to write.

Otherwise, the yellow bear in my head gets angry, and he has a bad opinion of me as it is. Anyway, Jai baba and I have started this blog as a free representation of our repressed desires (*sharpens elven knife*) and thoughts. Here, we shall say whatever we want, about whoever we want, however we want to say it. We shall be completely random, and we shall discuss everything under the sun, from books to theories to politics to surrealism. It will be filled with emoness and joyfulness, with white and black, with rainbows and vampires. We shall try to spew out posts almost everyday, or as soon as we can.

Hail the Freedom of Expression!