Sunday, December 26, 2010

The Wonderful Life of Kids

Something I wrote for something I had to write recently. It's hard writing for a definite audience. For me... writing is like taking off your clothes. You can't do it when you know someone's watching.

Ah childhood. That wonderful time of life, when life is full of rainbows and pink unicorns and cotton candy. When dreams could become real, and reality is filled with chocolate and other cavity inducing sweets. A time so innocent that, repeating Peter Pan, “You’ll never grow up!” But hark!

Innocent, you say?

Are you sure?

What marvels a bit of investigation reveals! It has been brought to light that for years now, what has made up a significant aspect of our childhood, aka nursery rhymes, contains the contaminated taint of adulthood. Innocent no more, rather our poems have been defiled with sexual innuendos, death and perverted imagery, all with the backdrop of soothing melodies. Though it does add an interesting outlook in retrospect when we’ve matured to adulthood.

Let’s retrace. Everyone remembers Rock-a-bye, Baby, right? It’s a lullaby. About a baby hurtling down to his death in his cradle. Does your teen have suicidal tendencies? Well, now you know why. Images of violence continue throughout the pages of nursery rhymes books. Recall the old woman who lived in a shoe. “She had so many children she didn't know what to do! So she gave them some broth without any bread, And she whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed!” Tough love, some would call it.

Then, there’s ye olde tale of the collapse of the London Bridge! The playful rhyme, Ring around the rosies, is actually based on the calamity of the bubonic plague in England in the 1600s. “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down” is a reference to the ashes from the infected bodies that were cremated to spread the plague for spreading. Gruesome. But hey, your five year old loves it.

Finally, who can forget the infamous tale of Jack and Jill? First of all, I don’t know how many of you have ever heard of a well on top of a hill. From what limited knowledge I have on such matters, people usually live in valleys close to the water source so that they avoid the impossible task of building a well to tap into an underground water body that doesn’t form on top of a hill. So then begs the question… what were they doing on top of that hill? More specifically, causing them to both to fall down? I heard Jack broke his crown.

A moment of dawning realization.

Disease, sex, death, violence… Themes that would seem reminiscent of Quentin Tarantino’s movies, not childhood nursery rhymes. But there you have it. The truth in all its twisted, ugly glory.

And don’t even get me started on Scooby Doo.


I promised myself this wouldn't happen. I would not let this blog turn into an angsty rant blog about guys. Heck, when I was thirteen, I promised myself I wouldn't turn boy crazy! I had it all written down in my diary. Yes, the old school diary with a lock which involved wrist action to write in. And, you know, ink.

I'd clearly spelled out that no, I would not become some stupid boy crazy girl, just like the rest of them.

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men. I mixing something up here? Perhaps. Anyway I have succumbed to what I realize is the biological tuning of every female on the planet. Except the sea horses. Those females are kickass. They make the men carry around the egg!

And the lobsters. Can you imagine a she-lobster wondering why he didn't call her? Can you imagine the sex?

Lobster sex. Wow. We've transcended new borders of normalcy here. We watched snails fornicating in class once. Life is full of many wonders.

The male race is pathetic. That is all.

Friday, December 17, 2010


"Yesterday, at that party, I met this lady," he said, bringing me closer, "and she said she could look into my eyes and see that I was already in love with someone." I blushed - he always said I blushed too easily. We smiled goofily at each other. We kissed. I got lost in his eyes.

It wasn't me. In his eyes, the love in them wasn't for me. Months later, I remembered what he'd said. And I saw the truth of his words. Maybe he's seen it too, if he remembers. Retrospection makes a master of irony out of us all. In his eyes, the love was for a woman from the past. He'd made up his mind to move forward. His eyes hadn't. And, then, looking into his eyes, I'd foolishly mistaken that love to be mine.

He was so determined, though. So adamant when he proclaimed his love. So strong-willed that, shielded as I had been by scepticism, I foolishly, foolishly started believing the words he said. He was too innocent to realize he didn't mean it. I was overwhelmed by possibilities and new ecstasy.

So, if you can, imagine the heartbreak when he left.

Time passed. He rediscovered the woman from his eyes. The woman who had a right to the love in them. Meanwhile, my anger melted into hurt. Eventually, time crumbled it into acceptance. I don't have anything against them. So, he wasn't in love with me, he wasn't mine.

Then why did he have to go to such efforts to convince me otherwise?

In retrospect, I see my role in this story, the story I thought was my own. At the risk of sounding too technical, I was a foil character. My role, my purpose was to make him realize a little bit more about his life. Maybe I'm wrong. But this is the only balm I have. Through me, he saw what he truly wanted. So where did that leave me?

An exit from someone else's story. An opportunity to search for my own.

Thursday, December 16, 2010


of COURSE i'm connected to the server.
how can chrome for a cause say i'm not?
all the websites are working!

aren't they?
do i just THINK i'm connected?
when in reality
i'm not -

but the websites
they illusions?

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

3 AM

Three in the morning is a unique time. It’s supposed to be the devil’s hour. You know how Ted, in this one episode, says go to bed after 2 AM because nothing good ever happens that late at night? Well, he’s wrong.

I’ve had epiphanies at 3 AM. And some pretty great laughs with my friends. (No, I couldn’t find another time to be bored and in need of company.) And some significant silences with a few others.

So about that epiphany. This post was going to be about it, but 3 AM seemed suddenly more important. I’ll relate it anyway. Having one of those conversations that go round and round with someone extra eccentric, none of us were making any sense. It was 3 AM. In India, not where I am. Told you I was Indian at heart.

Anyway. We reached this conclusion, that everyone is messed up. Really. So… what does being normal mean? So, then, if everyone is messed up, then being messed up must be the norm. Then people who are “messed up” are actually normal, and those elusive “normal” ones are actually messed up.

Doesn’t that make you feel better? The Joker was sane after all.

The Joker is then symbolic of the purging of the author’s “messed up” mind. The Joker is us. He represents the deep shadows of our minds. Ok, so maybe to each of us, the Joker is a different menacing age. Like for say Charlie Chaplin, the Joker’s age would be an innocent eleven. (Then again, who knows what went on under his inconspicuous hat.) For Osama, maybe the Joker is in his late forties. Completely serious.

Ok that’s enough now. Time to hide.