Blue bottles

Ze blog turns two.

Felicitations!

And its my 100th post.

:)

I would like to thank…

As promised I shall narrate the story of my starry childhood as the School’s favorite representative for performing obnoxious fine-artsy stuff.

I prefer to refer to myself in third person as it is less painful when I can pretend it wasn’t me.

Malaveeka was a quiet child of few talents. One of these talents was to fake goodness in front of the teachers and earn their praise. And a few gold stars.

Yes, Yes. Malaveeka was a suck-up.

Also.

As you might have experienced, in schools the teacher’s pet (she was that too) gets picked for everything.

One of these everythings was to take part in School Day Programs.

We cordially invite Dr and Dr(Mrs) C to…. witness the massacre of a child’s mind and cause years of therapy.

School Day.

Where teachers smelt like a thousand dead roses. Their sarees crackling at the pin sharp folds.

Where children spoke like awkward adults. Who spoke correct English. With an affected diction.

Yes, Karthik. Do you know the dances of the North Eastern part of India [...] Let us watch. Please enjoy.

Where words like esteemed, celebrated, esteemed, well-admired, honoured and welcome were used in one sentence for some lame ass chief guest who wore too much make-up or a too tight suit.

Where, backstage, stood Harishchandra looking slightly sick with Girl-from-the-English Countryside bending over him with wary fascination.

A stiff hat bent over cotton robes.

Malaveeka was a part of this horror drama.

Year after year, she (after weeks of practise with shins worn out, voice given out and mind crumbling) would perform like a monkey in a frilly costumes with gunk on her face to parents who waited impatiently to see their simian children enact these over-rated acts of so called talent, clicking a million pictures to be seen later for comic relief.

And yes, Malaveeka performed with gusto. A big smile on her face, under the too-bright lights, wearing something that radiated classlessness and light.

This was when Malaveeka was 10.

Five years later.

She turned fifteen.

My worthy readers would assume, quite naturally, that she would have learned a lesson and refrained from the School Days.

But No. Despite being a stunning and articulate young woman who sometimes smiled, she took part in what was her last School Day.

She felt like a fool. She looked grotesque. She hated it all.

She stood there again beneath the lights looking at the audience. And then she saw a man smile and wave his camera, possibly for a million pictures to be viewed a little later, for light relief. And the lady beside him grinned and mouthed love.

Malaveeka smiled.

The smile grew. And stayed fixed.

And she danced for the last time beneath those lights.

I have been surfing while my server has been playing havoc with my satisfying gmail chats.

and I found this.

I like.

Especially the one on her Mum’s purse.

P.S: The two year anniv of bloggie love coincides with my 100th post. This is my 99th.

I haven’t laughed so much while typing. Ever. My gut still hurts.

Thank you.

That done.

I need a break.

Somewhere sunny and humid.

Where I can sprawl all over a lounge and read a book. Or sleep. Or watch the earth rotate around its axis.

Any which way…

I had a nice morning.

Woke up to some poha-chai after eons. Read a book in bed (Katherine Mansfield). Laughed at the Family guy on the lappie.

Dreamed a little.

Read Consti. A. 300A

Slept some more.

Mailed a bunch of friends.

Read the day old Hindu .

Did Kakuro.

Laughed at a previously read strip of C&H.

Read another book. (A.A. Milne)

Listened to some Brubeck. And then to the Beatles.

I’m creamily happy.

Mrrow!

A word breathed down in a rapturous sigh.

The tingly sensation that tingles in me every morning.

The aroma, the taste, the feel.

The caffeine. The cup. The cure.

I adore chai.

The mindless wreck I am before I drink it.

The sweetness that crosses my throat directly to my soul.

I love tea.

The thousand friends I made whilst drinking it.

The million dreams I missed staying awake because I drank too much. of it.

The childhood I left behind with the steel filter and Ma’s smile.

The creeping into my life.

I love tea.

Truly.

Madly.

Deeply.

Cutting. Tapri. Refills. Chipped mugs. Poha. Vada Pao.

Morning.

Night.

Delhi evenings.

Trains. Buses. Flights.

Bags. Mixture.

Fragrant, milky concoction. In a lota.

Bitter, watery Japanese tea served in virgin ceramic.

Je t’amais.

Tis a lot like love.

I’m back.

I missed all the fun that the blogosphere had to offer.

Plus I’m bored with moots.

If I read another word of Seervai, I shall scream and never stop.

As much as I’m in love with Salmond featuring Fitz, I need my darling senseless blog.

I adore thee, my sweet collector of idioticism.

I have been an unmitigated and compreghensive arse.

And…

yeah..

I’m bach!