Caught your attention, didn't it? It did. That's what secrets do. They have an allure. A pull.
First the word. Secret. I like. It's one of those words that I think was well thought of. By whomsoever it was that thought of the words. Unlike table. For some reason, I think (and it is my own personal opinion) that a table could have been called something else. More thought and more editing might have gone into that.
But secret- that came out just right. The word to the meaning- it fit.
Secret has it's own distinct sound. In my mind, its a whisper.
Secret has a life span. And it varies. Short, long and eternal.
Secret definitely has a life. And a very exciting one at that.
Personality? Now we're talking. Dark, alluring, mystical, devious, happy, joyful.
And power. To make. To break. To resolve. To hurt. To elate. To banish. To reveal. To hide.
It can definitely be seductive. Or ugly. Dangerous. Sinister. Or beautiful.
Everyone has one. Or more. But, one, at the minimum.
And the coolest thing about a secret. It finds its space. A nook. A corner. A brain cell. A thought. In your system. Heart or mind. And stays there. Safe. As it should.
And it demands to be well kept. Because it knows that if it isn't, then it will cease to exist. It will no longer be that. A secret.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Observations of the Why Why girl.
Why is it that when a mother changes the millionth (or at least what it feels like) diaper, she's only just being a mom?
But let the dad get his hands on one and the whole room gushes what an absolutely amazing dad he is?
Why?
But let the dad get his hands on one and the whole room gushes what an absolutely amazing dad he is?
Why?
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The thoughts that are thought
Think of all the thoughts we think.
Good thoughts. Bad thoughts. Nice thoughts. And naughty thoughts.
Happy thoughts. That make us smile. Sad thoughts. That rather not
be thought.
A thought that's private. A thought that is shared.
Crazy, insane thoughts. Rational, sensible thoughts. Calm, peaceful thoughts. Anxious thoughts.
Thoughts that are born. Thoughts that are inspired. Borrowed thoughts.
Fleeting thoughts that come and go. Thoughts that linger. And breed more thoughts.
A single thought. A chain of thoughts.
Clear thoughts, of a sound mind. Confused thoughts of an irrational one.
Thoughts of love. Thoughts of family. And friends. Thoughts of strangers.
Remnant thoughts of the past. Thoughts of the here and now. Thought that think into the future.
Thoughts that turn into dreams. And fantasies. Thoughts that turn into a creation. Or thoughts that destruct.
Thoughts of great minds. Of artists on canvases. Of poets in poetry. Thoughts through films. Orations and books that translate thoughts.
And then the everyday thoughts of the ordinary man. And woman. And child.
The thought that are thought.
Like this one. A thought about thought.
Good thoughts. Bad thoughts. Nice thoughts. And naughty thoughts.
Happy thoughts. That make us smile. Sad thoughts. That rather not
be thought.
A thought that's private. A thought that is shared.
Crazy, insane thoughts. Rational, sensible thoughts. Calm, peaceful thoughts. Anxious thoughts.
Thoughts that are born. Thoughts that are inspired. Borrowed thoughts.
Fleeting thoughts that come and go. Thoughts that linger. And breed more thoughts.
A single thought. A chain of thoughts.
Clear thoughts, of a sound mind. Confused thoughts of an irrational one.
Thoughts of love. Thoughts of family. And friends. Thoughts of strangers.
Remnant thoughts of the past. Thoughts of the here and now. Thought that think into the future.
Thoughts that turn into dreams. And fantasies. Thoughts that turn into a creation. Or thoughts that destruct.
Thoughts of great minds. Of artists on canvases. Of poets in poetry. Thoughts through films. Orations and books that translate thoughts.
And then the everyday thoughts of the ordinary man. And woman. And child.
The thought that are thought.
Like this one. A thought about thought.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
kookie mookie shookie koo
Mama ka koochie poochie. Goo goo gaa gaa shee. Bad googy hup. soni moni. Alle alle baby choochie choo. Cutie patootie too. alle alle sonie monie tootie pootise poo. poo poo. No poo poo. baby did pee. sona mona baby. doodlie doo. such a sonie monie. chotru potru .
There's English. and Spanish. Mandarin. Russian. Canotnese. french.
And then there's baby talk.
No grammar. No rules. Phonetics, bah. It just comes naturally when you're talking to a baby who has not yet been inroduced to the complicated rules of language. It comes freely. And well understood and recieved in spasms of delight by recipient.
And I if it inspired doo doo doo, da da da, is all I want to say to you.
There's English. and Spanish. Mandarin. Russian. Canotnese. french.
And then there's baby talk.
No grammar. No rules. Phonetics, bah. It just comes naturally when you're talking to a baby who has not yet been inroduced to the complicated rules of language. It comes freely. And well understood and recieved in spasms of delight by recipient.
And I if it inspired doo doo doo, da da da, is all I want to say to you.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Uncleji that sold bras
Flash back to school days. When mothers always took it upon themselves, at least mine did, to make an expedition out of buying bras for her daughter. And my mother believed that the best kind of bras were the the functional, sturdy, white cotton bras. And that the best place to buy these best bras was Indraprastha lingerie store at CP.
In- dra- prastha. Indraprastha. Indra- prastha. No matter how you say it, Indraprastha does not invoke lingerie. Nor sexy, nor lacy.
Say Indra- prastha. Now say, Victoria's secrets. Or La Senza. Now say Indraprastha again. You get the drift.
And the icing on the cake that was Indraprastha, was the bra selling Uncleji in Indraprastha.
Rotund, bald, pant suit wearing Uncleji. The undisputed king of the bra counter. No pantie or sock selling for this Uncleji. Nooooo, let the ladies handle that counter. This gent handles the bras.
Uncleji- the star salesman. With years of expertise in selling bras. Uncleji with the balding head, which he frequently rubbed. And a beer belly which he rubbed on occasion.
Uncleji with a very loud voice. The very loud voice with which he which he announced to everyone in the store and outside- haanji madam, bitiya ke liye brassiers?
And then in that loud voice, he yelled to mysterious man in a mysterious loft in the ceiling of the store that stored all the white cotton sturdy functional bras " Oye Chotu, ek 34 B dena."
Mysterious chotu in the mysterious loft would then throw down various boxes of bras in 34 B.
Cut to Uncleji. Who would then then with a swoop of his head and belly caressing hands, take the bras out of those boxes and hold them up for everyone to see. And for some strange reason , once again announce your bra size for everyone in the store and outside the store. 34 B.
And because that was not excruciating enough, Uncleji would procees to loudly announce the benefits of the above mentioned bra. Very strong, madam. Comfortable. Very beautiful. yeh detail dekhiye madam.
Acha, biitiya, abhi try kar ke aao. ....
Meanwhile, Bitiya (me) was pretending to not hear him. In fact , pretending that he does not exist. In fact, pretending that she did not exist. And that she was not currently engaged in a discussion about a bra with a rotund, beer belly rubbing Uncleji who was explaining to her that this bra is very strong.
And if that is not excruciating enough, Uncleji sizes me up. Take note now, that I am not buying shoes here. So when Uncleji sizes me up, yup, he sizes me up. One thing I'll grant him , he does it professionally. Not seedy, not cheesy. "Bitiya, aap yeh 36 C bhi try kar lo."
And then proceeds to loudly announce to mysterious man in loft and all bystanders in CP that I might , in his opinion be a 36 C. Oye chotu, ek 36 C dena.
So then I proceed to the fitting room. I can still hear Uncleji having a conversation with my mom about the benefits of the bra. I stay in the fitting room for a very long time. If I could have styed there forever, I would have.
But I couldn't have so, I walk out and Uncleji asks me if the bra fit well. And really if there was a moment when the earth should have opened up and swallowed me, that was it. Because then I would not have had to have a conversation with my eager mom and eager Unlceji about how the bra fit and how I was indeed a 34 B and Uncleji responded to say he was surprised because his assessment was still that I was a 36 C. I pretty much blanked out after that.
Next thing I remember was my mom was happy.Our bra buying expedition had been successful. Uncleji was happy. He was indeed the superstar salesman. I am sure mysterious Chotu in the loft was happy. Another random Uncleji in one corner of the store seemed happy. I have no idea why.
Me, I had added two more white, cotton, strong, sturdy bras to my bra collection. My bra collection from Indraprastha.
And I was pretty much contemplating joining the burn the bra movement.
In- dra- prastha. Indraprastha. Indra- prastha. No matter how you say it, Indraprastha does not invoke lingerie. Nor sexy, nor lacy.
Say Indra- prastha. Now say, Victoria's secrets. Or La Senza. Now say Indraprastha again. You get the drift.
And the icing on the cake that was Indraprastha, was the bra selling Uncleji in Indraprastha.
Rotund, bald, pant suit wearing Uncleji. The undisputed king of the bra counter. No pantie or sock selling for this Uncleji. Nooooo, let the ladies handle that counter. This gent handles the bras.
Uncleji- the star salesman. With years of expertise in selling bras. Uncleji with the balding head, which he frequently rubbed. And a beer belly which he rubbed on occasion.
Uncleji with a very loud voice. The very loud voice with which he which he announced to everyone in the store and outside- haanji madam, bitiya ke liye brassiers?
And then in that loud voice, he yelled to mysterious man in a mysterious loft in the ceiling of the store that stored all the white cotton sturdy functional bras " Oye Chotu, ek 34 B dena."
Mysterious chotu in the mysterious loft would then throw down various boxes of bras in 34 B.
Cut to Uncleji. Who would then then with a swoop of his head and belly caressing hands, take the bras out of those boxes and hold them up for everyone to see. And for some strange reason , once again announce your bra size for everyone in the store and outside the store. 34 B.
And because that was not excruciating enough, Uncleji would procees to loudly announce the benefits of the above mentioned bra. Very strong, madam. Comfortable. Very beautiful. yeh detail dekhiye madam.
Acha, biitiya, abhi try kar ke aao. ....
Meanwhile, Bitiya (me) was pretending to not hear him. In fact , pretending that he does not exist. In fact, pretending that she did not exist. And that she was not currently engaged in a discussion about a bra with a rotund, beer belly rubbing Uncleji who was explaining to her that this bra is very strong.
And if that is not excruciating enough, Uncleji sizes me up. Take note now, that I am not buying shoes here. So when Uncleji sizes me up, yup, he sizes me up. One thing I'll grant him , he does it professionally. Not seedy, not cheesy. "Bitiya, aap yeh 36 C bhi try kar lo."
And then proceeds to loudly announce to mysterious man in loft and all bystanders in CP that I might , in his opinion be a 36 C. Oye chotu, ek 36 C dena.
So then I proceed to the fitting room. I can still hear Uncleji having a conversation with my mom about the benefits of the bra. I stay in the fitting room for a very long time. If I could have styed there forever, I would have.
But I couldn't have so, I walk out and Uncleji asks me if the bra fit well. And really if there was a moment when the earth should have opened up and swallowed me, that was it. Because then I would not have had to have a conversation with my eager mom and eager Unlceji about how the bra fit and how I was indeed a 34 B and Uncleji responded to say he was surprised because his assessment was still that I was a 36 C. I pretty much blanked out after that.
Next thing I remember was my mom was happy.Our bra buying expedition had been successful. Uncleji was happy. He was indeed the superstar salesman. I am sure mysterious Chotu in the loft was happy. Another random Uncleji in one corner of the store seemed happy. I have no idea why.
Me, I had added two more white, cotton, strong, sturdy bras to my bra collection. My bra collection from Indraprastha.
And I was pretty much contemplating joining the burn the bra movement.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Sun
Total sun person. Not a doubt about that. Give me some sunshine and I'm happy.
Something about the warmth on the skin, the burn, even. Something , then, about sun kissed skin. The deep golden olive tan.
Something about the sun creeping in through the windows of the house. Patches of sunshine on the kitchen floor. Streaming in through the white cotton curtains.
Something about tying the hair up to feel the sweat on the nape of the neck. And earthy summer dresses. With big sunglasses and silver flip flops. Glistening sun screen.
Walking through fountains to cool down. Then laying on the grass to warm up. Cold, cold, nimbu pani. Make that two. Icecream. Popsicles. Sprinklers in the garden. And running through them. Now, cool, then hot.
Something and everything about the sun. Glorious.
Something about the warmth on the skin, the burn, even. Something , then, about sun kissed skin. The deep golden olive tan.
Something about the sun creeping in through the windows of the house. Patches of sunshine on the kitchen floor. Streaming in through the white cotton curtains.
Something about tying the hair up to feel the sweat on the nape of the neck. And earthy summer dresses. With big sunglasses and silver flip flops. Glistening sun screen.
Walking through fountains to cool down. Then laying on the grass to warm up. Cold, cold, nimbu pani. Make that two. Icecream. Popsicles. Sprinklers in the garden. And running through them. Now, cool, then hot.
Something and everything about the sun. Glorious.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
NO, you may not feel me up
And no, you PUNK, you may not rub your thigh against mine, Or try and slide your hand up my arm or waist or any other part of me. This is public transportation and I am as much entitled to a decent ride home as you.
And yes, the wind is blowing. And yes, the T-shirt is clinging to my breasts. And no, that does mean that you should stare at them. And that cheap, annoying lip smacking sound you are making and that funny action with your mouth you are doing at me from way over there across the street, seriously stop it , you retard.
And, no, 55 year old Uncle ji, just because you keep driving up to my autorickshaw, rolling down the window of your fancy car , raising your eyebrows at me and smiling, does not mean that I will hop off the auto and into your car and where ever else you desire me to hop into. You might have a fancy car but it's definitely not working for your delusional 55 year old sorry self. Uncleji, go home to your family. And no, you two SRK wannabes who never will be, I will not hop off my auto onto your bike too. So you might as well stop or else you will also end up as delusional as delusional Uncleji.
And no please do not $%^&* break into some choli song when I walk by, or maro some sleazy comment, or smack your lips or scratch your crotch or your bum or breathe heavy or smile or leer or or make any other kind of obscene #@%&*( gesture that only a sleazy Ahole like you can think of.
Because honestly, while you might think that by doing so, you are sending out some sexy vibe to me which shall make me feel this desire for you or whatever else it is that you think I am thinking, all I am thinking is how someone should grab you by the balls and expel you into the horrors of hell so that you rot there and die and never plague thi world again.
There, that's what I am thinking, you retarded, delusional, wannabe sleazoids. So stop.
Just some rants over the "eve teasing" (oh, so understated) scenarios in Delhi.
And yes, the wind is blowing. And yes, the T-shirt is clinging to my breasts. And no, that does mean that you should stare at them. And that cheap, annoying lip smacking sound you are making and that funny action with your mouth you are doing at me from way over there across the street, seriously stop it , you retard.
And, no, 55 year old Uncle ji, just because you keep driving up to my autorickshaw, rolling down the window of your fancy car , raising your eyebrows at me and smiling, does not mean that I will hop off the auto and into your car and where ever else you desire me to hop into. You might have a fancy car but it's definitely not working for your delusional 55 year old sorry self. Uncleji, go home to your family. And no, you two SRK wannabes who never will be, I will not hop off my auto onto your bike too. So you might as well stop or else you will also end up as delusional as delusional Uncleji.
And no please do not $%^&* break into some choli song when I walk by, or maro some sleazy comment, or smack your lips or scratch your crotch or your bum or breathe heavy or smile or leer or or make any other kind of obscene #@%&*( gesture that only a sleazy Ahole like you can think of.
Because honestly, while you might think that by doing so, you are sending out some sexy vibe to me which shall make me feel this desire for you or whatever else it is that you think I am thinking, all I am thinking is how someone should grab you by the balls and expel you into the horrors of hell so that you rot there and die and never plague thi world again.
There, that's what I am thinking, you retarded, delusional, wannabe sleazoids. So stop.
Just some rants over the "eve teasing" (oh, so understated) scenarios in Delhi.
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