Aw.

I have moved.

http://malaveeka.wordpress.com/

I feel like a heel.

Oliver Twist

All I ask for is a little respect.

When I bust my ass for 13 hours every-effing-day.

I don't need the sarcasm I get from the boy who serves tea.

And I'm tired. And I feel so hungry and cold all the time.

Real Life is hard.

Once was Bombay

Mumbai is a difficult city.

Not like Sunday Mornings.

I struggle to get by.

Money, humidity, language, culture, Poha, work.

But I'm slowly developing respect. Maybe it's not the love I feel for Delhi. Or the affection I have for my Pune. But it sure is something.

Today I travelled by local again.

The man-with-no-legs pitched his sales. Some bought some. Many just watched. Hanging on to dirty brackets suspended from above.

There is no luggage rack because of 7/11.

The man-with-no-legs is the only man in this rambunctious compartment. Ladies' Special, they call it.

I watched a documentary on Ladies' Special once. I recognise a lady from the doc.

The man slides off as we reach Andheri. He waves with both hands and promises to come tomorrow.

Some women wave back. Other smile.

Some sleep standing. An equine disposition.

I watch. Fascinated. Terrified I'll miss my stop.

Some pray. Their rosary beads clicking softly. Their mouths moving in His praise.

Some yak. Loudly. About husbands and boyfriends. About benign maids and stupid faced children. On the merits of cooking a certain way. Or how to scan a document.

Many read. Some study. Other learn by rote.

Women crammed in one compartment.

So many lives. So many upbringings. So many smells. So many people. So many voices.
Crowded into the early morning heat.

At 7 in the morning, Bombay is more than alive.

It pulses.

Its Bandra now.

I get off here.

Baby, Let's Cruise

I felt a little pull of attraction today.

After a very long time.

I wonder.

My name made it to the College Mag 7 times. With a picture and an article.

I learnt a song of the Beatles by-heart.

I slept for 13 hours. Through no electricity and 80% humidity. And dreamed only one dream.

I said 'Ooh' to a dog today. He had the most gorgeous liquid-y eyes.

I had an eventful day.

I spilt coffee on myself and water on someone else.

Eventful evening.

And now I pack.

Singing 'Duets'.

I wonder.

Posers

Why do people say 'existential' with 'angst' to sound smart?

Like when they say they read Nietzsche when I know all they know about him is what they read about him in the Culture Vulture thing last week?

Posers.

Those.

Us.

Me.

I felt like an idiot doing it.

Which is why I won't anymore.

I shall take pride in being the person that I am.

Coke-guzzling, yaar-saying, tapri-eating, uber- mercurial wonderful me.

And if I read Brothers Karamzov, good for me.

And learn to spell Russian names right, even better.

Video killed the Radio star.

I like that song by Pentagram.

Because of the video.

That part where the dog pees against the wall and the words sung are 'there is warmth in drops of rain'.

I know, obvious and all.

I like obvious.

Much better than devious.

Thu. My posts suck.

Un jour comme un autre

I hate hairy ankles. And un-elasticised socks.

And socks that droop over the ankles, exposing the jutting bone and the great tufts of hair.

And this is what I looked at constantly for over two hours.

The disgust bubbling inside me. Tension swirling beneath the bubbles.

Two hours is a long time to wait for anything. Where nerves stretch to madness, strumming my pain with its fingers.

Endless cups of plastic coffee drunk endlessly.

The heatless atmosphere was getting to me.

My butt hurt from all that sitting down. My neck hurt from the looking at the floor. My shoulders, from the tension.

I'm tired and I don't need this.

I hate this.

Fuck this.

And then I saw the ankle.

One jiggly ankle. One hairy ankle crossed over black, inexpensive pants. Jiggling to some beat.

The grotesque projection of bone beneath the taut skin. Moving up and down.

With hair all over it. Up, down. Up, jiggle, jiggle. Down.

Repulsive. Yet fascinating.

I looked at it, drinking endless cups of coffee.

The coffee mixing in my nervous stomach made me feel pukey.

And I watched the ankle still.

And then my name was called out.

I looked up and saw the owner of the ankle smile at me.

A smile intended to be remembered. A flirty smile. A shy yet loaded smile.

I smiled back.

A cruel smile.

And then..

I felt a lot less nervous. More confident.

The churning of the coffee stilled in my belly.