Girls like me.

I just got bored trying to find a picture of a okay-looking girl with short hair. Adjust. -_-

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-         Random is the word. That explains THE us and the post. Sorry. :) -

We still think that smoking and drinking is totally uncool.  We don’t see why we should be stuck with a guy irrespective of the amount of physical or emotional investment made in him if he doesn’t treat us right. A real man still opens the door of the car, holds the hand while walking – along the beach, while shopping, just standing, anywhere.

Virtual world is real. Sometimes more real than the real real. Socializing is cool. Cool until you start poking your nose into the lives of all my friends. And at times, it would do a great deal to fiercely bang your head with an iron rod to remind that the equation to ‘Us’ was you and me; not you and her. <supresses urge to say something further here>

We try something contemporary. Trendy dresses. Shades(?) Stuff. We  can be quite clumsy and mess it up more often than not. Dresses in light shades never manage to return to the washing machine in the same shade. Changes range from light brown to deep black. Never really eat an ice-gola without spilling enough of the colourful liquid all over us. Never find the right way to open a burger with the right side on top. Never figure out how to use the teeth to open a ketchup packet.

We could be suckers for something very silly. A drink. A chocolate. A colour. Varies. A song could make us cry and a rainbow, 6-coloured ones with the indigo missing (knowing winks at the special person) especially, wipe ‘em all away. Somewhere deep inside, we have a secret side that wishes to explicitly express itself to people we encounter – say what exactly we think of them. And there’s the other side that tirelessly fans out the tension and the electricity – if you get it.

Makeup never really finds the right reach in us. We killed it to a painful death long back when we were in our primary school. We always have something in us that not many people get to know. We sing, dance, mimic, draw, paint. We open up rarely and when we do, it comes out in a gush. If you’ve heard it, you’re staying alright. But pushing yourself away on your own doesn’t count in the calculation.

Your ‘inconsequential’ things can upset us a lot. Pay attention. Or get lost. The independent streak runs thick. The money factor can curl us up. Spending money NOT equal to impressing. Awkward. Just sitting next to each other in silence and still feeling perfectly comfortable is bliss.

Books mean a lot. The smell from old books. *wide smile* Photographs for memories. Scribbling random stuff next to them. Scrap books. Signatures. Having fun, dancing, jumping and screaming without giving a damn if anyone is noticing. Travelling. Absolutely enjoying the music and nodding the head along to match the beats while on a ride – bus, bike, car, anywhere. Genuinely believing that somehow, something will be better tomorrow.

Probably, there have been a lot of men. Probably there will be a lot more. But right now, if you’re in it, then we think that that is all that counts. Honest. Even a handshake might take a long time to come, but you know that we have our heads attached firmly to the senses.

Trying to ground us with accusations, past, pointing to mistakes and the likes never work. NEVER. We might flinch once. Next time, you’d come home to see the empty broken cage. Words can come flaring in. But there won’t be double-faced gimmicks.

We’d keep giving. Moments. Surprises. Love. Memories. They’re unending as long as you know how to – wait, no; not return it – receive it.

But once in a while, we could say a thing or two that’ll make your day and what we say would be specially intended for you and you only. And when that smile curves your lips, there can’t be a happier soul than the me standing in front of you and the ‘I love you’ that follows would have never had a genuine-er version. Isn’t that okay? 

P.s: I know that quite a few of you are thinking that I sound a lot like Linda Goodman. Honestly, right now, I think so too, although I really did not intend this to turn out to be like that. Fact is, I enjoyed doing what I did. And in the end, I figured nothing matters more.

If you have somehow reached here, congratulations! :D And good luck. I might decide to write a sequel to this. :P

Until again..

~ Just Someone.

[Photography Courtesy: THE Boss.]

The Missing Piece.

Dedicated to: They know who they are.

 

Irrespective of how much we are blessed in life, we always crave for something enough that we find a gaping hole in our hearts, because of that one aching wish we carry from our childhood to our graves. The intensity of the absence of the person, thing, situation or opportunity might be regulated by the compass of time that governs it, but the presence of that missing piece will always be in there, nevertheless.

Yes, I do have ‘people’ who love me crazy enough to talk throughout the night to keep me company, to be protective enough to be skeptical about the guys in my life, to turn up from miles away in short notice just to give me a hug on my birthday, send me a digicam from the other end of the country six months after my birthday as a belated gift, sit up late nights to do free professional service, discuss endlessly about cartoons and talk about the random-est of all things to divert my mind from a heartbreak after seeing The Men in Blue or CSK loose a match and practically take care of my entire frequency of writing, and keeping me in check . And so much more than what can be put down, actually.

But come to think of it: A rock solid mould of harmless and brainless thing, always tailing you, , pulling off your carefully made pony tail, making fun of all your favourite dresses, joining in a picture with you only to make faces and ruin it,  fighting with you for a chocolate he actually hates, steal food from your plate, yell at you like a cracked up case at every single mistake you do, bribe you with chocolates to make you maintain the code of silence to cover-up his super-human deeds, scowl and curse and dress your knee every time it gets scraped, try to pry into your secrets, call you names, wake you up in the middle of the night to scare you about ghosts, let you sleep on his shoulder on long trips (and short trips as well), buy you an unbelievably expensive hair-clip after you annoy the hell out of him, let you roam around the entire house all day in his abnormally huge T-Shirt, let the entire world know when you achieve something even remotely close to the consolation prize in a burger eating competition adding without fail that he strongly suspects you cheated, crush you in that bear hug more at times that you need [and not], do extraordinary deeds in public that are bound to embarrass and be the most irritating punching bag ever. 

Is there anything apart from this bugging but indispensible creature which can substitute in any of the above mentioned situation?

Counting my blessings sure does help, but – [read the previous passage again for reference]. That guy I can grown up with, shout at, order to, see married away under my supervision. Yes, Exactly. I try not to think so much. But seeing pictures like this don’t really help, do they?

  

The picture that filled and emptied my heart, instantly.

Yes, yes. I’ll keep trying. But all you pretty faces out there with an elder brother to flaunt to the entire world – I am so  over the 'saying "Oh, your'e so lucky"' phase; yes, I am Royally Jealous. And I will always be. Hmph.

P.s: Yes, this is very random. Might not make sense to a lot of people out there. But this time, I've written for myself. For the love of what I love. *period*

[Photograph Courtesy: Megha Patani]

-          Just Someone.

The beginning.

*Dignified repose*

Now, how does that sound? Definitely not 18-year-old material to me. I think I was having in mind ‘a sneak-peek into my own self’ as the idea when I decided to name this blog. Or rather, I created this blog only so I could use that name. Makes me want to smile and stretch out and relax, every time I visit this page, see the template and read the blog name.

How many of you are sure you know yourselves? Apart from the judges that we are to our own selves, how many of us can claim to be prejudice-less spectators to our own selves? I can, as a matter of fact, step right out of what I am and witness me growing, perishing, returning, withering and even appreciate the after-glow quite picturesquely. I come across usually as this very simple girl who can laugh her heart at every simple thing that holds her in captivation. I am that. Simple things amaze me. No matter how many kids I see in a day, each and every one of them make me go ‘Aww’ genuinely. I find pleasure in surprising people. I step away a bit to see who would turn back to wonder where I have been. I write and read and I play and sing. And I wonder. How much more is there to me that I can shamelessly admit?

I love the spotlights, the attention. I love surprises. I like it when people treat me special. I love being pampered. I love when somebody manages to click a whole set of natural pictures of me, without my noticing it and I love it even more when they show it to me very casually. I love it when somebody holds my hand. I love it when my friend comes along and takes me by the shoulder, walking with me silently, clenching my arms and I love it when that silence so beautifully envelopes all the unsaid things that had been taunting me. I wish I could walk along the beach, the water just softly lapping my feet and I love it even more when a friend can walk by me, silently. I‘d love to have that same silent company while waking up in the morning at 3, lying down on the grass and waiting for the sun to rise. I wish I could wait, lying on my back, counting stars and making wishes, slowly tracing the thousand blushes the sky would send before it retreats to its personal haven to relish in the biggest secret it has been hiding from mankind since time began. I love birthday surprises. I love new clothes. Colours. Rainbows.

I wish I could keep trotting and singing by some river side when somebody would remember that I love daisies and bring them coupled with a few touch-me-nots. And once in a while, I would hear a song that someone had written for me, and smile to myself. Mid-night coffee breaks. Paint wars. Redecorating the house. Sitting on top of the terrace and watching people walk by. Just traveling. To anywhere. And, talking. 

I can talk for hours. And then, remain silent for days. At times, I wonder if I can ever explain it right to someone about how I write. Will they believe me? It took me quite some time for my own self to accept that fact, anyway. Let me try. When I write, I don’t feel like I am me. I am someone else. Some possessed soul, getting instructions from someone or something. It feels as though, in a split second, I am ripped from being who I am, and something else takes over me. I lose consciousness. Self-realization. Control over my thinking. Something keeps dictating things to me. And I just write, without giving a second thought about how silly or stupid or embarrassing anything that I write might turn out to be. And, I drop the pen. I relax. I feel like me. I don’t feel like going through what I have already written. I feel bored. I leave the piece of writing at that and go on. And later, when someone stumbles upon it and praises it, I smile vaguely. I search for what I had written and it stuns the hell out of me. How could I have written something like that? No kidding me, please. Those words sound real nice when strung together. It makes perfect sense, unlike the thoughts in my head that always wind themselves and reorder every damn minute and defy the definition of the very word confusing. I try to grasp what it was, that made me write it. It seems to simply slip away from my grasp and smile and run away at an exponentially increasing speed as I try to chase it down the corner. And then, the craze to the limelight takes over. It likes basking in the attention, in the glory. It convinces the confused part that it is purely the reason for the mastery just exhibited. And by the time a full formed doubt takes shape, the light-hearted side takes over and happily dances away with the remaining of me and makes sure that no complex thoughts force themselves into me. It makes me lazy, not wanting to explore into eluding secrets and keeps day-dreaming about the fame that will catapult me to great heights. And all along, who was it that made me write it? Or rather, what?

You don’t believe it, do you? Neither do I. And the worst part is, I don’t have a choice.
You seriously enjoyed reading through all this? Bribe me with a milkshake with ice-cream, or even better, a chocolate-filled sundae. I can go on endlessly about this.

You think I am shameless? Late realization, mate. I had figured that out some good 7 years ago. And I am still successful enough in fooling myself into believing the fact that I am absolutely the most special person alive, ever. Who knows? Maybe, I really am.

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- Just Someone.

[ Picture Courtesy:  Deviantart ]