Confessions of an idiot.

Being back home is lovely. I've said this before but it's something I need to reiterate. Good food, a bed with two mattresses, air-conditioning, Anguri who makes my coffee and does my laundry, my mother. Like all good things, however, it does have a downside. Money. Or lack of it. Unlike Delhi, whenever I need some funds, I can't just trot along to the bank- I have to go to my mother instead.

We were at lunch yesterday and I was pondering on how to extract some money from my mother. I figured the best way to do it was by telling her I wanted to buy a book, pleading for a five hundred rupee note and using the change for various miscellaneous necessities. The minute I thought of a book, Princess Diaries came to mind for some reason. Don't ask me why. Maybe it was because it's Jahnavi's twentieth today and I was feeling nostalgic. I'll always associate Princess Diaries with her. I stopped reading the series ages ago because maturity set in, but for some reason, I really, really wanted to read the last book of the series which came out a year or two ago. For closure, maybe. Plus, I was pretty sure it heralded the return of Michael Moscovitz who was sent to Japan and who is definitely a fictional character I can see myself committing to for the rest of my life. 

So, after a long and passionate speech about inflation, I managed to wrangle five hundred bucks from her. I know, believe me, that it's not good literature but people like me, who do read good books, are allowed to turn to mindless chick lit sometimes. You've heard of the unwritten principle about how you can tell a person's character by their books? Well, let me put it like this: if I have mounds and mounds of good poetry and biographies and books by prize winning and critically acclaimed authors, owning a few trashy books means, not that I'm shallow, but that I have a flexible and diverse personality. Or so I told myself during the short walk to Crossword. 

Once I got there though, it took me fifteen minutes to gather the nerve to go to the Young Adults Section. There was a fifteen year old girl (complete with fifteen year old boyfriend) hanging about in front of the Meg Cabot shelves, talking (loudly) about how everyone said she resembled Anne Hathaway who plays Mia in the film and how she totally couldn't see the resemblance (Neither could I- she looked like a walking pork pie). I bided my time, lurking in front of the Tolkien section (for anyone who hasn't read The Hobbit: read it). As soon as she moved away, I ran (literally, ran) to the Meg Cabot books, grabbed Ten out of Ten (the tenth and final book of the series and it wasn't hard to miss being very silver and very shiny) and then hurtled down the stairs to the Poetry section. I hid there for twenty minutes until the crowd in front of the cashiers' counter had cleared, before shuffling furtively towards it, the Meg Cabot buried under a pile of war poetry. It was only when I handed the money over and saw the book being put into one of those big carry bags, that I felt safe. 

I came home, ignored the Charles Dickens that I'm going to be tested on next week, and read the entire book straight through. I have to admit, it was a pretty great afternoon. Mia was as annoying as ever but Michael's only improved with age and time. It was like being fourteen again. 

When I closed it, it felt like the end of an era. 

Ten Things Psycho Has Taught Me

1. Do not steal money from your employer because Karma will bite you in the ass for it.

2. If a cop is following you, hunching shoulders, furtive glances and an unsteady voice are the reasons behind it. Learn to lie better.

3. If you come across a motel which has no other guests, leave immediately.

4. Avoid men with a mother complex.

5. Stuffing animals (and people) is not a nice hobby.

6. Always lock the bathroom door. Always. ALWAYS.

7. If you want to talk to an old woman who ostensibly lives in the creepy house on the hill, do yourself a favour and don't.

8. If you must investigate a matter because your curiosity won't allow otherwise (poor fool), make sure you are accompanied by a tall, strong and preferably handsome man.

9. Actually, make sure you are always accompanied by a tall, strong and preferably handsome man.

10. While in a strange place, never walk around naked because chances are there is a creepy psychopath spying on you.

You're surrounded by beauty.

Wild streams tumbling over rocks, pulling their white foam with them. Slant of the sun, blackened by a crow. The sway of a tree branch. The smell of a chocolate croissant and the soft, dry feel of pink powder smeared your face.

And you should be content but then you see the mountains. And even though you're already on a mountain, it's not the same because the ones you see are bigger, topped with fresh snow. It's just like snow should be, not like the melting ice by the side of the road.  Real snow for real mountains.

You want to be there, on that peak. You want it so much it hurts. Just a little, in the bottom left corner of your abdomen. You want to be on top of that mountain, standing in snow, with the rest of the world below you.

You grow yourself a pair of wings. Whatever colour you like. And then you walk off in the opposite direction, away from it all.

I have an assignment that's due tomorrow. I should have worked on it this afternoon but I spent all day watching That 70s Show instead. Then I decided that since I can't work at night, I should just go to sleep and wake up at four and do it.
So by ten I was in bed. Tossed for an hour, worrying about it.
Got up. Drank three cups of coffee, smoked lots of cigarettes and sat down to it.
I finished it in forty five minutes. I think I entered a higher plane.
But I can't get to sleep now. Because of all that coffee that was supposed to keep me up till three am.
Damn.
The next time I do something like this, I should remember I'm a genius.

The benefits of yoga.

Monday onwards, I am starting yoga classes.  I was supposed to three days ago but I'm going to need a little time to mentally prepare myself. Waking up at six thirty isn't something that should be taken lightly. I'm pretty sure it could even strain my system.

I have to admit I'm a little nervous though. Mrs Khera, who's also taking them, demonstrated the Surya Namaskar for me at breakfast today. There's this bit where you bend over, keeping your knees straight, and touch the palms of your hands to the ground. I tried reproducing that in my room and I won't go into details but I had to hastily remove myself to bed and I spent the next half an hour lying on it with a pillow under my back. Mrs Khera is fifty five (or more) to my nineteen. This is not right.

Never mind. That's the point of yoga. It will make me flexible. I will be able to bend and twist and turn and maybe it'll also help me to stop tripping over things. I'm pretty sure it'll also give me peace of mind and all that. Two weeks from now, when I wake up in the morning, instead of wishing that I could just spend the rest of the day (preferably the rest of my life) in bed, I will spring from it with a graceful leap like those annoying girls from Enid Blyton's St Clare's.

Yoga will make me patient. It will enable me to concentrate. It will expand my mind. It will put me in touch with my inner consciousness. Basically with a little luck, it will overhaul my personality. This can only be a good thing.

Pablo Neruda: Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. 

Airport.

I don't like the Madras airport. It's hot. I don't think the AC's working. And maybe it's just me but everyone here looks really depressed. Ugh. I hate the heat. But I hate the cold too. Can't figure out which one I hate more. And my jeans, which were loose when I left Delhi, have become uncomfortably tight. I think I overdid it on the pancakes and the sausages.

 I still have another forty minutes to go before boarding. I'm flying Paramount Airway, business class. Not as good as it sounds because apparently the entire aeroplane's business class. I know how these bastards work. Basically it's going to be the same as the economy class in other airlines. They've just called it something else to make passengers feel special.

Pah.

I really hope my flight doesn't crash. I hate take off especially. When the plane's going up, up, up, with it's nose towards the sky, I always get the feeling it's going to stop moving and come crashing down. Landing's not too bad, because with every second you're getting closer to the ground and so, chances of survival are increasing (that's what I keep telling myself anyway). Just to be on the safe side, everytime the plane touches the ground, I always raise my legs slightly so if something decides to tear through the linoleum covering the floor, it won't tear my feet apart at the same time.

I think I need psychiatric help. I blame my family, I really do. And my dysfunctional upbringing.

Funnily enough, I'm actually looking forward to going back to Delhi. I'm happy there now. I was re-reading the entries I wrote last summer and it was all incredibly depressing. I wish I wasn't so morbid.

On the bright side, I haven't bitten my fingernails for twenty four hours. This is a record.