Small Things

I haven’t blogged for a while now, just waiting around for that one topic worth writing about. I read someone’s note yesterday, so well written about a moment in their childhood. If I was to recollect and narrate about my childhood, it would be so vague, to me and to those who read. I don’t have many memories of my childhood or not many funny interesting stories so to say. Now that I think about it, I have always been the kind to play it safe.  Don’t jump from the wall, in case you get hurt, don’t cheat in exams in case you get caught. All I can say is I was aware of the consequences of my actions. That’s the best excuse I can give for a lame and unexciting life. Talking on life, I pretend (to myself) that I know a lot about it. But the truth is I don’t.  I have begun to feel like, I haven’t  lived a life, I have just read about it, in books, in newspapers, in the lines on my parents faces and the silent tears in my brothers eyes. And that makes me feel like I know life. The

Edward doesn't exist. I don't know why the hell Stephenie Meyer had to create him? Why she had to give this dream to a girl like me, a die-hard romantic? Why did she feel the need to make girls like me find it so hard to face reality? Edward doesn't exist. A normal guy can't be with you 24*7, a normal guy has a living to make, things to do, relations to keep. A normal guy can't remember everything you say, he will falter in his ways, he may make you the centre of his world but his world is still way too vast for him to always concentrate on you. And Edward is just a fictional character. At the end of the day, we're goanna end up with a normal guy. But now since Edward has dominated the romantic part of my brain, even the best of the normal guy is not good enough. Edward doesn't exist and yet he does. He's freaking abnormal, and yet he's a dream. Edward, oh! Edward. Why don't you exist??????

You praise me with your words, disrespect me with your actions. You say that you love me, but hurt me by hurting yourself. I know you don't trust me when I say I care, because if you did, you wouldn't run away every time I slacked a little in showing my affections. I am not so good with my words, and am too used to being cared for than caring for the one's I love. But I know I want to stand by your side, and even though I slack, I know that my affections are sincere inside. No matter what you think, no matter how I slack, I will be you sister through and through, you can always count on that. Love nanu.... I miss you, and I am sorry.

Mistakes, they are a part of life. Mistakes, everyone makes them once in a while. Mistakes, they help you grow. Mistakes, they make you wiser. But there are  mistakes that are crippling. Some mistakes you can’t look back with pride. Mistakes, that are only disaster, Mistakes you made, not because you were brave but plain stupid, no excuses. Mistakes, they seem to be the only thing that define my life. Mistakes.

I started writing this, after reading someone’s facebook status today. A part of it said, “Never believe in 3 people, SAGITTARIUS, ARIES, and PISCES . They are the most selfish and mean.”  And I am Sagittarius, so it just got me thinking.  Am I mean? Well, I have been called that before, so maybe I am, but as I know myself, yes I am rude, but mean, I don’t know, but, I don’t mind being called mean. Secondly, am I selfish? The answer is very very obvious. I was, I am and I will be, and I have never denied it. I don’t believe in sacrifices. I do things to make me happy. My happiness comes first and foremost for me.  I know how that sounds, but I am not ashamed of being selfish.  I have never done anything in my life for other people and I will never do. All my actions are focused on making me happy, making me feel good.  And I hate when someone comes up with a statement, “I sacrificed this and that for you.”  I am like, “come on dude, you did it because you wanted to do it, it made y

My friend (Tashi Dema) and I went to pizza hut today, a treat to ourselves for nothing.  We ate so much…and by so much, I mean so much, that by the  time we were done, our stomachs were bulging out (in my case, visibly). When I think back to that moment, I get this typical image in my head, of a fat man with a huge pot belly, sitting on a chair he doesn’t fit in, and his legs stretched, and arms apart, head thrown back, mouth wide open, very tired after eating. Ha ha, I think we looked something like that (shhhh…it’s a secret, ;)) I know most of you are thinking that the statement we ate too much is an exaggeration (girls always do that, when it comes to food right?), but if u see the photos of all the pile of food we actually finished, you will be scared too. Anyways, it got more fun when the bill came. It was more than what I had in my pocket.  I thought today would be the day we experience washing pots and pans for real. But that was OK right, after all it was PIZZA HUT!. (Just t

Recently I had been hurt real bad. If you really consider the situation, it's no big deal, but maybe I had put so much faith on that one small thing that it suddenly not being true hurt me a lot. I have cried a lot about it, been trying really hard to get over it, and now I m in a stage of recovery. And right now everything that used to hurt me before feels funny. When someone cut me in the middle of a sentence, I used to get very irritated, now I find myself smiling at the situation. When a friend greeted everyone but forgot me, I used to get really hurt, but now I find myself silently laughing. Everything that's suppose to be hurtful, being ignored, rejected, insulted, getting ill, getting wounded, I find myself laughing in all these situations. It’s as if like I am saying unconsciously, "if I can get through that, everything else is a joke." Have any of you ever been through this phase? I wonder. It’s like laughter therapy right? But I would rather be angry and ir

Again it’s been sometime since I last wrote, and it’s not because I didn’t have anything to write. Enough took place in the last two weeks or so to make a book if I was that capable of expressing myself, but instead I just found myself at loss of words. Today I am not writing about what occurred, just scribbling down some thoughts. I recently found a photo of me taken in 2006. I look at the picture and see no change. I look exactly the same in my eyes. But everyone else says I looked so different then, it doesn’t even look like me. I wondered how that is, and realized that even if I have taken a 100 times more picture in the last year, my eyes still only recognize the picture of me from years ago. When I close my eyes and think of me, I don’t see this girl looking back at me from my mirror, but that girl on my laptop screen, her with different expression in different situations. Something I had not paid attention to before. I am her and not me.  This explains a lot actually. Everyone

How many times do we stop in our present to dream of the future. Me? Loads and loads of time. I am always procastinating my today’s work to dream of the future, far far away. And my favourite  potraits are those where I dream of the impossible. I like dreaming of things that will never come true. I like to dream that I am a super model (stretching the fantasy to the extreme) or  a world reknowned neursosurgeon, better still, an all-rounder artist, that is, a singer,  dancer, painter, poet, novelist. Of course there are more. But unlike Mr. Walter Mitty, I don’t mix my reality with my fantasy, but like him I use it often to escape my frustrating reality.  And why I dream of things that can never come true?  Because those dreams come at a lesser price. If you see realistic dreams, you have hope of reaching there one day, you expect to live your fantasy in reality in your future, and when that doesn’t happen, there is always some degree of disappointment. And disappointment, as it is gene

i am laughing at myself right now. i just realized that how i make everyone read my blogs and articles irrespective of if they want to or not, if they like  my work or not. all the readers i have are under forceful readership. i am worse than a bad writer. it's ridiculous, but its amazing that they read it for me. thank you everyone. :)

I have been thinking a lot about what to write. And that's why I haven't been able add anything much lately. I am a spontaneous writer, I just write whatever comes to my head, without choosing my words carefully or planning my  ideas into paragraphs. my writings are like my conversations, i am not a good conversationalist but i talk a lot, i am not a good writer but I write a lot, without a topic, a theme or any humor (just like my conversations). And that's just me. well at least I got something to define me. Lately i have been fighting with that thought, Who am I? Now I can't say I don't exist, I do exist, but what have I done with my existence? Right now I feel like going off to some mountain and into a cave and meditating, cutting off all human contact and being in absolute solitude. I want to reflect back, explain to myself my actions, my mistakes and get over my regrets and start anew. I need time for that, and time I have not. Now when i am in this state, i

I silently smile when I see myself putting zeera and garlic into the curry as I cook, I used to vow at one point of time that I will never add them when I cook. I silently smile when I eat the things I used throw a tantrum about at home whenever i found them included in the meals, especially in the dishes I liked. One half of me feels proud, I think, its growing up, am growing up, am learning to adjust. The other half of me finds myself a hypocrite, why should I pretend to like the things I don't like? But I guess it's not pretending, am not saying I like them, I just have learnt to live with them being on my plate. It's adjusting. Adjusting, I have learnt is vital to survive. You have to learn to adjust to new surrounding as and when you move, and that's the only way you can live, or else, you are victim of depression, or in case of food, eating disorders. Well i guess, life is Darwin's theory, "survival of the fittest". Adaptation renders you fit.

does it matter how many tears you shed? who's counting? does it matter how many years you have wept? who's counting?

Of late, i haven't been able to keep in touch with my high school friends. i don't know what to talk to them about and i don't want to end up talking too much. More than often i have realized that i give away my entire life's history without them sharing more than what happened to them yesterday, and i really feel like an idiot afterward for having such a big trap for a mouth. But this results in me knowing lesser and lesser about them leading to shorter and shorter conversations until finally we seem to lose touch. I have always been bad in keeping touch with people, but it really saddens me when friends that were once close treat me like a stranger. It is but my own doing, pushing them away, but the walls that i build, that keeps them away are very weak and it requires only a little warmth from them for it to fall apart. But as i had given them no time of my own, i know it is very selfish of me to expect from them. To those friends, who have always made time, i am

last night i was tired and feeling a little low, so i talked on what bothered me. but i also had loads of fun making kheer yesterday. the best part was fighting for a bit of milkmaid, left over after cooking. i can proudly say that competing against three boys, all seniors, i still got to eat the largest share. its always fun to be a kid. and i thank everyone for coming and making a memory of an ordinary day.

We had kheer party today. We were all gathered, my seniors, some of my juniors and batch mates.   Three of us were the cook of the day, one of my senior, one of my batch mate and me. With kheer there was a potato curry, aludum, and it was so yummy, that the entire pot got cleaned up and I was the one to end it. My senior, daju, was serving me what was left of it, the gravy part. He was shaking the spatula to get off every last bit of it on my plate, but instead it hit my forehead. I believe it was right on the centre like a tika because a friend of mine began laughing and pointing it out to everyone. I asked for a tissue, someone passed it, but she got hold of it and wouldn’t pass it to me. She kept laughing and pointing it out to everyone, I felt so embarrassed that I was on the verge of tears. I squinted my eyes to make it look like I had something in my eye too, but I was simply trying to hide the tears of embarrassment that had welled up in my eyes. Finally someone passed the tissu

I know I am stupid. Infact I don’t believe any one else appreciates the level of my stupidity greater than me. So I have a question I need answered. I open my mouth, I prove to the world that I am stupid, if I stay shut, I remain stupid.   I know, it’s an easy option, it’s better to be open with your stupidity and become wiser and more knowlegdable at every step. But someone who hasn’t gone through this situation won’t understand at what cost this knowledge comes. Though I have accepted I am stupid, and for a long time too, but   having it being spelled it out to you over and over again, has its own trauma. It makes you lose all the confidence you have in yourself, it makes you judge yourself, doubt your capabilities, and before you know it, you have chosen to stand in the shadows. You have no courage or confidence left to face the light. And all that knowledge and wisdom you acquired becomes meaningless. Wasn’t it better when you were stupid? You atleast never doubted yourself and you

I just got back after receiving my juniors from the airport, it’s 2:00 am and I have a tute in the morning. But I just had to get out of bed and write this. what is it? just realization.   Two random things combining to prove one thesis of my life, whatever happens in life, happens for the very best of reasons. Firstly, I suffered a massive heartache in highschool, and today I understand why, and all I have to say now for that is, “thank you god, you saved me big time.” Secondly: I was deprived of attention, you know the kind where your physical beauty is appreciated, for almost all my life till date. Well, I always questioned god, why? Why did he not make me beautiful? But again, today I realize it has all turned out to be for the good. This lack of attention has helped me become a better person. I don’t know what kind of a snob I would have been if things had been otherwise. So again, I thank you god. So far so good, I always thought myself as intelligent, and ofcourse I bragged.

writing has always been my passion, you will always find me with a pen and a paper and a sombre face, always lost in thoughts. its the best way i express myself, and i love letting others read my work. so, i end up creating loads of notes on facebook and tag people all the time, so some one suggested to me that i should blog. now i have joined this site for some days now, and i am finding myself at loss of what exactly am i suppose to write. when you create a blog, you have to give it a name. i really didn't know what to call my blog, i didn't know why i was even creating a blog, but then chimi (my room mate and senior) suggested "small things", and it just fit. we always end up concentrating on the big picture of life, but it's the small things that matter, that count.  and since then, i have been making attempts to capture my moments in words, and failing brutally. i really don't know, how u express an ordinary moment, like travelling by bus everyday, o

I stand alone amid the crowd staring at my blurred reflection I stand alone amid the crowd Smiling at my own deception So many things I led you to believe So many things that aint true to me I m a stranger I always will be no matter how many years go by…

Sitting beside him, smiling at his irresistible charm, I began to realize how unusually accustomed I had become to his presence. I, of all people who hadn’t missed a soul in life time, missed him terribly on his absence. He continued with his narrations of one of those unforgettable days he had spent with her, his first and only love. I couldn’t but adore his sensitivity, his passion, and care. He spoke of her with such care and utmost detail, that he dragged me back to when it happened. I poked a little to make him blush, and his sarcastic laughter rang in my eyes, the color on his cheeks was high. He always tries to create a careless atmosphere to hide the pain in his heart, that he could never tell her the way he felt. I don’t know if it was the fear of rejection, or losing her friendship or simply the fear of all his fantasies to be with her being destroyed, burned to ashes. Hope keeps us all alive, maybe it was hope he was trying to cling on. I don’t think he knows himself either