RIP

Dear Foucault, I am so sorry you couldn't be with us longer. Hope your remaining eight lives are more fruitful. I love you very much.

Hello, Rohan!

Rohan arrived on the 10th of this month. Congratulations, my lovely Dinosaur! What a beauteous!

Did you know too?! Because I didn't.

Everybody knew!
All along!
All these months and months and months. Everybody!
It just turns my stomach inside out and all about, to imagine that this was it all along.
Oh my God.

My poor Meera. I wish I hadn't told you. I'm sorry.

"Are redheaded women red all over?"*

The title, you will soon realise, has nothing to do with this post. It has to do with this post written by this woman, who I've been reading on the recommendation of a friend.

When I chopped off my hair a few months ago, I got sympathetic glaces from everyone I know. And now I know why. Assholes. Turns out, cutting off your hair to spite your face is in the self-help book for dumped women. Ugh. I will always always grow my hair now. Always. And if I do cut my hair (a probability that my hairdresser is acutely aware of), I will make sure there isn't a recent ex skulking around, grinning at his achievement in the scalp follicle area. (Even if such a situation presents itself, I won't have much to worry about, will I? Considering things will come full circle soon enough, seeing how many men are leaning into rearview mirrors of parked bikes, combing all of their hair from one side to cover all of the baldness on the other, even as we speak.)

I made a cliché out of myself. (Besides 'an ass' and 'a bumbling fool' , which also are things I have made out of myself. I am truly artistic and experimental, when it comes to projecting aspects of my own personality.)

I feel so prescriptionized.
Repunzel! Repunzel! Let down your hair!

*The Inscrutable Americans- Anurag Mathur

The cynic and the happy fool (Revisited)

Remind me never to take up these freelance projects when I have no idea of the professional capabilities of people. I feel like such a fool. I don't need the money, I don't need to work extra hours, and I sure as hell don't need to shell out large sums of money because of somebody else's incapabilities. I swear to God, financial hassles is the last thing I need right now.

I was really hoping to do a good job with this, you know. Really. But I need to stop thinking about it. It's one small failure, and I need to realise that it's not entirely my fault. Or- if I have to be brutally honest- not at all my fault. Remind me also, never to work with friends again.

I'm going to stop thinking about this. I've been worrying myself sick. Literally.

Happily, I have very promising exciting projects in the offing. If I can get rid of the throat infection without further delay, I have a show that will be worth it. And then, there is the potentially life-changing, perspective-shifting thing that, at this point, can only mean greener pastures and newer cud.

Greener pastures. Research. Writing. Travelling. And training in the oldest martial art form in the world.
And in about four days, my favourite Dinosaur will have her second baby.

Under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed.
- William Ernest Henley

Home sick

A friend reminded me that I hadn't written in a while.

I guess I've bitten off way more than I can chew. I'm enjoying almost all of it though. Except for the bout of 'flu. And the dull heavy thud of the realisation that this house is too big for one person to live in. Don't get me wrong. I love living alone. I'd rather live alone in a place big enough for one person, is all. Sometimes, after more than twelve hours of meeting after meeting with different kinds of people, for different kinds of reasons, you don't want to come home to a house wrecked by kittens, ALL of which you have to clean yourself. And it certainly doesn't help to come home one night to a disoriented injured cat, and realise that you have to do this yourself. All. Night. Long.
Night. After. Night.

For someone who has so far had no issues with being alone, this is my first experience with loneliness. It turns out, a writer's life is not so enviable. I am reminded of that movie about William Forrester, only, I'm far younger, far less cynical and not half the writer that he was. There are times when I want to run back to the luxury of a big family house, where clothes seem to miraculously wash themselves, and all I have to do for breakfast, is walk down the stairs. This is probably the only time I am going to put down in writing that I miss my mother all the time. And the warm company of my dogs. And the cheeky humour of a lungi-wearing, cricket-watching, filter-coffee-drinking father.

Nevertheless, I doubt I ever will go back for good.