A Class, apart.

Great stories are made of great beginnings. They usually begin a long time ago, in a place far far away. This one was no different. It began a little less than five years ago, in one of the many city hamlets, the only one without a train station to its name.
Well maybe, it was slightly different.
Somewhere in the sunshine months of 2006, sixty aspiring architects met in a freshly whitewashed classroom, with low ceiling fans, and even lower standards, with great expectations and greater dreams. Dreams; to build bridges and museums, inserts and installations, and curvilinear walls.
We were young, and stupid, resolved to ultimately just make unresolved matchbox buildings.
But we tried our luck nevertheless.
Fifteen days, and a workshop later, we were ready to face the college, if not the world. Sadly, that didn’t last long, and we were broken down brick by brick, bats and closers, of queens and kings.
The five years hence might have been a rollercoaster ride, with a millions ups and downs, but I am sure none of us could ever have thought of better company, to smuggle glasses of bhang in the Varanasi Ghats, or to break into a cemetery in Hampi, to travel in tam tams, and eat tadgolas in Palghar, or dance in the rains in Matheran, to stand guard in the seedier by lanes of Delhi, to wolf whistle with the Chandigarh boys, or to dream collectively about a missed trip to Rajasthan.
We did everything, make up pretentious cubes that defined us, interpreted songs that probably didn’t have any meaning in the first place, and designed inserts in the zoo, when all that the animals needed was to be set free.
We designed lean to roofs and pitched roofs in the span of one night, and pitched advertisements for hybrid products in pairs to lean on. We cut soap, wood and our hands, and made thermacol versions of windows that would never be used. We measure drew temples, and homes, and a million other things, in times when all what we needed was to measure draw our own lives. We made pairs, and broke them, gossiped and bitched behind closed doors and closed ears. We self taught ourselves the staircase, and drafted each truss at least twice. We glass traced in bulk without getting caught and created auditoriums out of thin air, or our email inboxes. ;)
We created services portfolios overnight, and made concept models in the car.we wrote in CAPS on tracings, with an aim to fill them up, and sometimes we scrawled on a single page in TOS class, while the notebook was forgotten back home.
We forged and gorged, signed and dined as a class, and paid the price, for both. we compared results and designs, We designed for villages that were happy with the way they were, and got a free TV show out of a site visit, we danced and sang our way through fourth year, and ended those memorable nine months from June to January with a maternity hospital. We spent an entire day in the hot sun as punishment, drinking coffee and tea, secretly happy that classes were cancelled for the day, and spent hours in lectures, staring blankly at the blackboard, trying to figure out what the BM diagram actually meant. we photocopied entire notebooks a week before exams, doodles and all, and memorized answers to problems, we sincerely secret Santa-ed every December, and religiously dressed in red, whites and greens.
We trudged through the fifth, battling every riiiight with a wrong, and every fight with a song. And then it was done, the theses were shut, and the folios were folded.
A class that was a class apart, we say civilizations come and go, both, in our history lessons and otherwise. We made them cry, we made them moan. And more than once, we even made them leave. But newer ones came, and “history” repeated itself.
The last five years may seem like a blur, an amalgamation of submissions and juries, but over these years, we have grown, and we have evolved. We came, we saw and finally, after half a decade of torture, we conquered. The academy might not have taught me what architecture is, and I am not even sure whether ill ever know, but it taught me what friendship is, and for that, I thank you. We are the best, from the rest.

For the last five years well spent, class of ’11, this one’s for you.

Layers.

The bread, honey roasted sweet
Golden brown, lined, like a Brazilian tan.
A carve of tomato,
Like a seesaw wedge,
Goes to and fro,
Like a tennis match.

The cucumber crunch,
Like ice to a parched throat.
A smidgeon of sauce
Jalapeños, exotic,
Like the sound it makes in your mouth.
An orgasmic blur of spice and salt.

A slathering of mayonnaise
A sliver of olive
A slice of roast chicken,
Lush and tender.
A cut of meat,
Medium rare.

This ménage de trios
of multigrain, meat and me
Ah, these layers three.
One’s mine, another’s yours.
The third one’s the one the world can’t see.

Ex.

This ecstasy, pure and tainted,
A sheet of white, with a splotch of red.
A single dew drop, on gossamer wings,
A stiletto heel,
cherry flavoured lip gloss,
or platinum plated rings.


It creeps up,
Bit by bit, higher
like mercury brought to boil,
a parasite, a stalagmite,
just a point of desire.


A love drug,
Inhale, dream, repeat,
Hallucinations and helixes,
Of Spirals and lines,
Taken with a long stemmed glass of
Pinot noir or Merlot wine.

Creating paradigms,
Or paradise within
Neither gained, nor lost
Where only fools rush in.

To covet or covert
To digress or regress.
To feel the sparkle,
To see the warmth.

A piece of dark chocolate,
Or silk satin sheets.
A fresh strawberry,
simple lavender sticks,


can it be bound somewhere
between a sonnet of sixty words,
Or an epic of six million?
Or three single words, or maybe nothing at all.

Maybe its just me, or maybe its
You and your gorgeous behaviour,
Does every love story have an end?
Or does every end have a love story?

I love the way I look at you
I love the way I love you.
Its lust, that I am in love with,
Or maybe I lust for love.

Ah, this feeling of misery,
Or ecstacy.
Else maybe it’s just a plain
Case of idiosyncrasy.

Closet, space

Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.
The spider was my closet, the fly was I.
Layers of memories, stashed into space
A ménage de trois of times,
When I was stashed across space.
A sweatshirt of a grad school never visited,
A crumpled love note,
A long forgotten lust list
All dull and bland
Seven cutters with their blades missing,
The unsettling plastic rust.
A paper bag, from a time long gone,
Residual memories,, seems like an eon.
A biscuit box from Harrods,
With stones from the sea.
Letters from someone,
Name and address withheld.
A dozen pencil stubs, worn out and dark
Translated into words, over crumpled love notes.
The lone vodka bottle, empty and drained,
Murky memories of times ,hazy and strained.
The baby book, with pictures of circa past,
When the world was black and white,
Or spotted and sepia.
A pin from Paris,
Another from Rome,
And a broken crystal that
Hung around at home.
Spectacles, that I use,
When I don’t want to see,
A watch box, that doesn’t tell the time,
Stuck in space,
like superglue slime.
A coke bottle with coke,
Where coke isn’t coke.
Colour pencils all wrong,
Where green is blue
And red is brown.
A checklist that doesn’t matter,
With points that make no sense,
A mixed tape,
With old love songs gone blank,
A rubber tarantula,
And a plastic snake.
Two sets of playing cards,
Without the king of hearts.
My architectural instruments,
Tattered and astray.
A dozen old diaries,
With entries until May.
Nothing more for me here,
All distant memories, these.
i close the door shut,
To my mind, and I am free,
With a broken promise to mom,
To clean thee.

the lust list.

A talk with D,
A day for me,


A poker face,
With a mask I choose,
The perfect game,
Where I never lose.

A thousand words a week,
A pint a day.
People who listen,
To what I have to say.

A glass half full
A gorgeous half,
And one more chance to hear
A’s infectious laugh.

A walk with B,
A May with Di,
An SLR,
For far away things to see.

A lust list,
To be sorely missed.
And all the things money can buy,
Not just the gist.

Sex, Subtext and the City

The 20’s in the city , apart from bringing along its own set of driving tests and marriage proposals, both of which teach you how to swerve carefully and avoid collisions, also brings forth an individual’s understanding of sex, and the other sex. Literally, and figuratively.

Blame it on too many cocktails, or too much Carrie Bradshaw,or just way too much of sex, lies and videotape, but it seems that true liberation needn’t be reached only through the Karmic Theory. In this realm, the line between enlightment and orgasm tends to blur. But it blurs a lot more that it seems, getting hidden away, packed and stacked, bubble wrapped away from all those who are thought unfit of use. Sex, is thus dealt with a major X, and discussions about sex, ironically take the backseat, finding their ways into sleepovers and stag parties.

Which brings us to the one question; should it really be left to the hushed whispers? To be downed with tequila shots? Bound beyond closed doors and history textbooks? Is sex even more fiction than Santa or Satan; where the birds and bees remain just that, birds, and bees.

In a country where sex is taboo, and people are coy about post-coital, one wonders, in a place where sex is accompanied with a seeti,where’s the sex in this city?

>Hidden, but yet in plain sight. Under glossy magazines in plastic covers, on makeshift wooden stands; softwares and soft porn. In the seedier by lanes of town, under shady street lights, hidden beneath the hypothetical carpet of perfection, giving a whole new meaning to streetlight people.

But what about you, and I, and everyone else out there, you ask? We may draw up our own lust lists, and take up all the purity tests that Facebook might have to offer, but sure, there’s a risk in being risqué. After all, the four bases of Baseball aren’t for everyone, are they? A conversation with a friend took a turn when she told me that she was well past base 3, but not quite there to reach the 4th base.

We wondered, sipping our long islands and nibbling at our nachos, is there even such a thing as base 3.5? Well, we both agreed, that she had miles to go before she hit the home run, but what about all those countless others out there, stuck in a sexual limbo, wanting to take that one giant leap, for that one small step?

They say that there might be a thin line between love and hate, but what about the thread between love and lust? Is love necessary, to lead to lust? Or does pure lust lead to true love? In true love’s first kiss, is lust what you sorely miss? If it’s okay to go after the object of your affection, isn’t it okay to do the same for the object of your seduction too? After all, if everything’s fair in love and war, isn't lust but the perfect coupling between the two?
Maybe, I lust you, will never replace I love you.
Maybe love’s labour’s lost, or maybe love’s labour’s lust.
Go figure. I have people to go stalk.

Food for thought- II

You know you are going crazy when you have recurring nightmares of a plump giant chicken squawking away behind you while you squirm around like a worm, trying to hide from its scaly yellow claws. Fortunately for me, this early bird does not end up getting the worm.

You can either get to the food, or let the food get to you. And usually, I would prefer the former. After all, doesn’t the belly rule the mind? Don’t get me wrong, I am not a glutton- I am an explorer of food.

Haven’t we all watched a movie just for the bucket of buttered popcorn? Or watched late night reruns just to finish of the tub of double chocolate chip ice-cream? Who amongst us is not fond of fondue or plotted for a plate of pot rice? Or gorged on Gouda cheese and Foccacia bread? No man in the world has more courage than the man who can stop after eating one French fry.

There are some things in life you’ve got to bucket before you kick the bucket. Like a stone baked slice of calzone drizzled with virgin olive oil, or rich Belgian waffles with a side portion of nutella crème crepes with a dollop of fresh cream. A cut of pan seared pomfret with a sliver of herbs and garlic, to a square of exotic mocha crumble, with all its crunchy apple goodness, or a plate of mildly spiced chicken seekh kebabs, caked with a layer of a traditional kathi bread.

Good food, unlike a good friend is not hard to come by. You just need to know the right place. And the right plate. In the end, to binge or to cringe, that is the question. You can never have too many of both now, can you?

Food for thought is no substitute for the real thing. So I think to myself, what do I do the next time the hallucination hen comes up in my dream?
I eat it.
Probably with a chocolate milkshake, and a side order of fries.

Food for thought.

They say that the way to a man’s heart (including mine) is through his stomach. If your heart is full, you don’t feel that hungry. And what do you do when nobody’s particularly interested in finding the way to your heart, you ask?
Well, you do the second best thing. You cook yourself.
Take it from someone who spent a major part of the vacation desserting rather than disserting, the joys of baking brownies is like no other. Two portions of sinful gooey chocolate with heaps of decadent vanilla and a concoction of caramel can solve anything but world peace. And weight loss, probably. If you don’t believe me, take it up with my mother who tells me that breakfast is called so, because it’s the meal that breaks the fast.
What the city loses out it traffic and filth, it makes up in chugging out gastronomical delights., From the lasagna at Churchill’s to the Mississippi mud pie at Fountain’s, all the way to the Bombil Fry at Jaihind Lunch Home. A myriad mix of colours in a Gola cart, to the sizzle of a pound of butter on a plate of Pav Bhaji. After all, who doesn’t know of the pleasure of biting into the first French fry at McDonalds’, or sipping on a Tropical iceberg at an air-conditioned Café Coffee Day on a bright sunny day, when the weather seems so much nicer from inside.
In the post-Anthony Bourdain world where cooking is cool, you realise that the human body’s not a temple but an amusement park, one to indulge than implore, where the next slice of pizza becomes a necessity, or the last chicken dumpling is the key to survival, especially in a friend circle where food comes first, even before friends.
You might be eating Pain Au Chocolat and crackers with Goat Cheese at an upscale New York café, or eating fish and chips in the back seat of a moving car somewhere in London, you might even be binging on a margherita pizza in Rome, or something totally unidentifiable from a suspicious wok in the by lanes of Beijing, hunger knows no language, only its feeder. Whether it be hunger for food, or a primal hunger for power, for knowledge or sometimes, even for love.
Maybe I need some food for thought, or maybe I am just hungry.
I guess I’ll go eat.

Ouch Potato

Come May, comes one month of nothingness to celebrate, a month where pure unadulterated fun is available in glass bottles and tiny Styrofoam cups. In aluminum cans and brown paper bags. You laze, you lounge, you lavish yourself, doing all those things that couch potatoes are known to do. And then, what do you do? You turn to that one thing in your life which you are pretty sure will never leave you, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, the television set.

Last year, While I struggled to keep up with Jack Bauer’s counter-terrorist agents, superheroes swept in discovering their powers, as a New-Yorker continued his quest to find his future wife while suburban housewives schemed and teamed. A medical resident trudged through nine years at every body's favorite hospital with his black best friend, while a private investigator finished high school.. Others partied and parted on the Upper East Side, and show choirs formed and performed. They called out to me from the TV set, in bits and bytes form, in monochromatic hues of red, green and blue. Each and every one of them, in their tantalizing seductive ways, while I watched. And watched. And watched.
For a month I watched. Glazed eyed and awe-struck. Secretly. In the dead of the night, when I was alone. Like a child caught stealing candy, like a teenager caught watching porn.
Eat, I didn’t.
Drink, I didn’t.
Sleep, I didn’t.
And then I realized. Like a scoffed girlfriend, it came out of nowhere and slapped me hard, squarely across my face. And walked away.

Sometimes life's greatest lessons aren’t the ones that you learn through moral stories and all those things parents tell children so that they get their judgments right when they grow up. They aren’t the ones that hit you after life changing experiences. Sometimes, life’s greatest lessons are the ones you learn from the very same character you watch every week. Those fictitious people who stay in make believe land. The ones you hate, the ones you admire, and even the ones you secretly want to be. And just like that, in a non-creepy and non-you-should-get-institutionalized kind of way, you realise that the voiceovers aren’t voiceovers at all.
Like the way J.D sums up life, or Mohinder Suresh discovers it, Or Mary Alice Young, who remembers it. Like Gossip girl’s summations, and Ted Mosby’s lessons, you realize that life is but the greatest show that you can be a part of. And if you are lucky, sometimes you get picked up for another season too.

Theses voice rush in, coming through to you when somebody goofs up and messes up your destiny, or even when you least expect it, like bad weather. Like the truth so naked, that it feels awkward to just look at it. You switch on the remote and stare at the TV screen, watching out for the white noise. The technical jargon. You watch and you learn, till those 42 minutes are up. What do you do then? Who do you listen to, when nothing else works or when the episode ends?
Well, you wait for the writers to come up with the next episode.

The last twist in the tale: The witch and the bitch.

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them, as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. It was the moment of reckoning. The battle of Hogwarts was about to end. Harry potter raised the blackthorn wand, and he saw Voldemort do the same with the elder wand.
They both hesitated. Something was not right. It was one of those feelings when everything’s in place but still something’s missing.
That’s when it happened.
The doors to the great hall swung open with a resounding bang, and all the heads turned mechanically to see who it could be at a time like this.
Three figures glided in, in robes of dark purple, fast as bullets.
“It’s a bird!” cried one apple-cheeked young wizard.
“It’s a plane!” cried another.
“What’s a plane?” asked a plump blond witch, inconsequentially.
“It’s Superman!!” rounded off a third, dramatically.
The sunlight from the tracery window up near the roof hit the faces of the three strangers who had entered the room, and their faces were revealed for the entire hall to see.
Bella Swan, Edward Cullen and Jacob Black peered at the crowd of hundred odd witches from under the hoods of their travelling cloaks, their faces weary and tired. But it wasn’t because of the long journey they had undertaken, their faces were just built that way.
The crowd stared blankly at the trio, while the three of them blinked stupidly.
Bella, who was clearly not used to such a lack of attention, cleared her throat. “Love me. I need you!” she screamed nonsensically in the air, to no one in particular.
“I am hot.” Edward said matter-of-fatedly in a tone which would have made Paris Hilton proud.
Voldemort tutted disapprovingly.
When no one responded, she awkwardly crouched and hid herself in the shadows. Not before she tripped on her own feet, though.
As Bella fell to the ground, face first, Déjà vu slapped harry squarely on his face. This had happened before. Twice.
The crowd burst out laughing as one while Bella lay there, sprawled awkwardly on the cold stone floor. Jacob rushed to her side, while Edward preened and pouted at a particularly attractive witch in the crowd who eyed him suggestively. Bella winced angrily as Jacob clumsily tried to help her.
“Go away!” she yelled at him, as he tried to hold her up in his arms. Even though she had Jacob on the hook (she had kissed him once, but had blamed it on the pre-battle stress then), it was Edward who she really wanted. After all, he was handsome, really old and made intense soap actor-like faces. What more could any girl ask for?
Jacob sulked off to the sides, and harry distinctly heard him mutter something about choosing Edward over him.
Voldemort rolled his eyes, frankly, this teenage angst was getting to him. After all, wasn’t having to deal with a whole school of hormone ridden youngsters enough?
Edward walked nonchalantly towards Bella, who was still sitting awkwardly on the floor. He hoisted her up, with a sudden jerk, and walked away, still not paying any attention to her. There were so many girls here, and so little time.
“Oh, what big arms you have, Edward?” Bella cooed sappily, noticing this, while Edward preened and pouted.
“The better to hold you with, B” Edward replied, looking more at the pretty witch, than at Bella.
Bella was pissed. Majorly.
Harry thought that this all seemed vaguely familiar from a fairy tale he had heard while he was younger, but he couldn’t remember.
“What a big head you have, oh Edward?” Bella continued, at which Edward cocked one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“Go sister!” Hermione Granger hooted from amidst the crowd, feminist that she was. Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley high-fived.
“This is not a part of the script!” Edward hissed at Bella, while she glared with the little bit of emotion that she could manage.
Edward who had always gotten out of trouble till now by giving one of his trademark piercing stares, tried to do so, But Bella wasn’t stupid any more. At least, not so much.
“Red Riding Hood!” harry cried out aloud, and immediately stopped as everyone turned around, wanting to see who had disturbed the intense charade.
Edward thought that two could play the same game.
Scrunching up his eyes, as if he was concentration with great difficulty, Edward rounded up on Bella, and asked, “What a Non-descriptive face you have, Bella?”
“The better for young adolescent girls all over the world to associate themselves with!” Bella replied, coolly.
Harry was amazed by her wit at a time like this.
“Jacob, Oh Jacob! Where are you?” She wailed loudly, and Jacob rushed so quickly to her side that Harry thought she had summoned him with a summoning charm.
Jacob grinned appreciatively at Bella, having had forgotten that she had reproached him just a few minutes ago.
Jacob looked at Harry’s quizzed expression, and smiled slightly.
“Rebound, Bro!” he said, as if it explained everything.
“No fair!” Ron Weasley burst out. Harry didn’t know whether Jacob calling him bro or Bella openly canoodling with her best friend while her boyfriend stood there, had annoyed him more. Harry didn’t dare ask. Ronald had issues, and Harry had come to terms with them. Hermione hadn’t but that was an entirely different story.
A story which Harry had told to a roomful of people, much to Ron’s annoyance, when he was three fire whiskeys down. Ron had not yet forgiven him.
Hermione tsked impatiently, and Ron rounded up on her. “ Yeah, you take his side. I always knew that something was going on between the two of you, all the times you were cramped up in the tiny little tent. Harry stifled a laugh, trying not to think of graphic images of Him and Hermione in the tent disturb him.
Jacob laughed loudly, which annoyed Edward in turn. “what are you laughing about?” he asked the werewolf,” You very well tried to do the same thing with my girlfriend!” he growled, which made Bella snort with derisive laughter.
“ Girlfriend? What about the tramp over there?” she asked, pointing at Pansy Parkinson, the girl who Edward had been eyeing.
“hey! Don’t involve me in any of this! My Death eater boyfriend is enough drama!” she said defensively.
Hermione snorted.
As the six teenagers bickered and bad mouthed each other, Voldemort shrieked like a young school girl. “ I. Can’t. Take. This. Any. More.” He wailed loudly , making a dash for the entrance gate. World domination was one thing, But handling teenage angst, well, that just wasn’t his cup of tea.
As Voldemort disappeared off the ramparts of the school façade, The sextet stopped. The battle was over, but the teen drama wasn’t.

Another twist in the tale: The edward Cullen story

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them, as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. It was the moment of reckoning. The battle of Hogwarts was about to end. Harry potter raised the blackthorn wand, and he saw Voldemort do the same with the elder wand.
That is when it happened.
Edward Cullen strutted into the Great Hall, his lips pouting, his eyes scrunched up intensely.
“Cedric!” cried out Cho Chang, who stood amidst the crowd, and ran towards him. Harry and Voldemort lowered their wands, puzzled expressions on their faces and looked at each other questioningly.
Almost the whole Hufflepuff house tittered the hall with their echoing applause. Edward stopped, in the centre of the room, attention hungry that he was.
“I am not Cedric.” He said slowly, emotionlessly.
“You are not?” But you look the same!” Cho said, her smile faltering.
“Polyjuice potion, I must say.” Harry said loudly, wanting to belittle Edward. Nobody stole his thunder. Nobody.
Edward glared at Harry. Or tried to. His botox-ed face wouldn’t let him. “No. I am a vampire.” He said smugly, looking at the crowd, expecting all the girls to swoon and all the boys to cry out. Nobody did.
He stood there, blanked out.
“Bella?” he asked, unconvincingly.
Bellatrix came up front, smiling suggestively at the boy in front of her.
“Yes?” she asked of him, winking at him.
“No. Not you. Bella Swan, My one and only human love.” he said, meekly, his face stiff. He wouldn’t want to mess with this one, she looked like somebody who meant business. He just needed a simple small town girl who would worship him. He searched in the crowd, for a suitable candidate. Well, If Bella wasn’t here , he just needed to find another human.
He saw her then. The pretty girl with the bushy brown hair.
“You” he cried out to her, while the girl shifted uncomfortably, “yes, you. Want to worship me? we can have make believe intellectual conversations like eighty year olds” he asked her cockily, sure she wouldn’t say no, Bella used to love those sessions.
Hermione Granger blazed with fury. “No!” she cried out angrily, with an echoing resonance. Almost everyone laughed. Somewhere in the crowd, Ron Weasley breathe a sigh of relief.
“You can’t be Cedric anyway.” Cho said spitefully. This was the second time a boy had chosen Hermione over her, and it did not go down well with her. “He was cuter. More intelligent. And lastly, had normal meals like the rest of us!” she concluded smugly.
All the girls agreed. The boys hooted. Minerva McGonagall whooped in the air, while Flitwick rushed into an impromptu hip-hop jig.
“ How dare you, you, you…Humans!” he said lamely, his voice shrill like that a school girl.
“Are you done now?” Voldemort asked Edward hoarsely, rolling his eyes. “We have a battle to get back to, pretty boy!” Edward shifted slightly, getting a bit luke-warm under the collar.
Then it happened.
A dirty shoe came hurtling from somewhere, hitting Edward and bouncing off his head.
“ ow!”, he cried out, trying to fight back the tears.
“Wimp!” somebody cried out.
“Loser!” said another.
Another shoe followed suit. And a hundred after that.
“Moron!”
“Retard!”
“Male chauvinist pig!” That was Hermione.
“Dumbfuck!” McGonagall said loudly. She was in her element.
Harry and Voldemort threw their wands at Edward, having nothing else to throw,laughing derisively as he ran out the Great hall, crying loudly.
All was well.

A twist in the tale: The Bella Swan story.

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them, as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. It was the moment of reckoning. The battle of Hogwarts was about to end. Harry potter raised the blackthorn wand, and he saw Voldemort do the same with the elder wand.
That is when it happened.
Bella Swan ran into the Great Hall, a hundred pair of eyes fixed on her.
“Love me. I need you!” she screamed nonsensically in the air, to no one in particular.
Harry looked at her, so did Voldemort. They didn’t know what else to do.
“Are you a Vampire?” she asked loudly, looking at Harry first, then the Dark Lord. Harry shook his head slowly, while Voldemort unconvincingly mumbled up a negative. Bella looked at him suspiciously.
“Aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes small and beady, her eyebrows raised.
Voldemort shifted uncomfortably in his place.
“Your skin’s pale, your eyes are red. And if I look at you from this angle over here, it almost seems as if you are dazzling! Love me, I need you.” she told him, adding the last bit as an afterthought. The audience tittered. Voldemort glared at them, and they immediately stopped.
“I am the dark lord, muggle! Not a lowly vampire!” he screamed, his voice echoing through the ceiling to the forbidden forest beyond.
“Uh-huh. Your breath’s not sweet anyway.” She said, rolling her eyes at him.
Voldemort stared at her pointedly.
“Edward! Where art thou?” she whined, when no one answered, she asked again, “ Edward? Robert? Cedric?”. Somebody in the crowd giggled.
“ He died. Four years ago!” the answer came, a disembodied voice, somewhere from the crowd, and everyone burst out laughing.
Voldemort blushed. He had done the deed after all.
“So. Anyone?” she asked the crowd in general, “Come on, you know you love me. Every guy back home surely did. Human. Vampire. Werewolf. I thought I’ll add Wizard to the kitty too!” she grinned, but nobody laughed.
Harry tapped his feet irritably on the floor while Voldemort checked his breath.
“Love me. I need you.” She repeated, whining like a bawling child.
Harry and Voldemort were both getting annoyed. Then, a that point, they knew what had to be done.The light hit their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he, too, yelled his both hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand:
“Avada Kedavara!”
“Expelliarmus!”
The bang was like a cannon-blast and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead centre of the circle they had been treading, marked the points where the spells collided.
Which was sadly, the place where Bella Swan stood.
Bella swan fell to the ground, as everyone in the crowd cheered and clapped for their two heroes. The battle of Hogwarts would be fought later, for now, The greater evil had been destroyed. :P

For all you Harry Potter fans, this is my tribute to you.
For all you twilight fans, eat shit. :D

Me.

I think the world’s out to get me.
That includes him, her and you.
I fear the things that I do,
Things that may be taboo.

I’m a coward, a liar,
A weakling, a two-faced bitch.
I care more about myself,
I’ll let go off you in a stitch.

A lying tongue, a heart
That devises wicked plots,
I bitch, I gossip,
About you and what not.

Sometimes I think
I’m not cool
Sometime I think
This world’s mine to rule.

I feel yellow, green, blue
Even red, but I never feel white
But why don’t I still care,
Even if I know it’s not right?

I lust for power and wealth,
And have the greed for more.
Look down upon other people,
Feel like a cheap whore.

I’m afraid of the dark,
Of the unsettling melancholy,
Of cockroaches, death and failure,
And bad things that might happen to me.


I don’t think I’ll change,
Cause suddenly I see,
This is what I’ll always to be.
We’ll all be the same after all,
Him, her, you and me.

You

I hate the world today, a world without you.
I feel like an emo, I feel so blue.
If everything’s Technicolor, I live black and white,
No light over here, but 30 days of night.

July was grey, and august was brown,
It’s been the same, since you’ve gone.
The sun’s so dull; the moon seems a mess,
A world without you, a world so colourless.

Life’s blank, like an empty cheque.
Crazy, they call me, an emotional wreck.
I hate the world today, a world without you.
I’m scared that ill soon forget the things that you used to do.

Arghitect!

There was a boy in Bombay,
An aspiring architect was he,
To all you architects I say,
He was just like you and me.

Plans he had to build theatres,
Museums, walkways and malls,
With solitude points and extrusions,
And lovely intersecting walls.

He said to himself one day,
“This is all very easy!”
T’was about cool concepts after all,
Though some of it seemed quite cheesy.

But all was not well in our hero’s life,
Cause all good things come to an end,
What Architect boy didn’t know was,
T’were pesky Profs at every bend.

“”My subject’s more important”,
Spat each one higher and higher,
And our poor architect boy,
was caught in the crossfire.

There was design, and construction,
And drawings in perspective,
And history of architecture,
Of 1000 years before you lived.

The drawings came next,
And that was no child’s play,
He groaned, he moaned,
He hunched over his board all day!

He juggled his work like a circus freak,
But the work just bundled up more,
Wasn’t this supposed to be easy?
Thought he, as simple as 2+2=4.

Poof went all his plans next,
Of structures and forms,
Crushed, he finally decided to,
Build according to typical norms.

This story might seem familiar
I’ll be surprised if it wont be,
Cause this is the story of every architect
Us, you, them and me.

Circa 06

Destiny and I sat at the table, sometime in 2006, sipping our coffees, eating our croissants.
She looked at me. I looked at her. There was nothing else to do.
“So.”, she started, after a particularly long pause in which I chomped off half of my croissant.
“So, what?” I asked her, on my guard. I never liked her conversations which began with that word.
“What do you want to do?” she asked me, nibbling at the crust of her croissant like a dormouse.
“I want to eat my croissant in peace.” I replied, rather rudely. I never liked to talk while I ate, anyway.
She stared at me pointedly, clearly not amused.
“Ha.Ha.” she worded, rather sarcastically.
“I meant, what do you want to do in life?” she questioned, her voice a little brittle, like glass that was about to crack.
“Oh.That” I said, as I wiped my mouth with a tissue, brushing off the flecks of crust off my t-shirt. My croissant was over, so I could talk.
“I don’t know. Maybe, I’ll become a chef.” I told her, while a waiter hurried up to take our empty plates away. He looked at me in distaste again. I followed his gaze, and saw that there still some crumbs on my t-shirt. I brushed them off, embarrassed.
“Uh-huh.” She said, as if I had said something that was low on intellect.
“Why? What’s wrong?” I asked her, defensively. Being a chef was cool, and I wasn’t going to give up on it so easily.
“Umm. For starters, can you cook?” she asked, a sneer on her face.
“Uh-huh. I can make a decent Spanish omelet, a chocolate cake, corn salad…” I trailed off, as she stared at me smugly.
“…and instant noodles. I can make instant noodles!” I continued, rather weakly.
“Wow. Imagine a restaurant that sells instant noodles!” here voice dripped with sarcasm.
She did have a point.
Being a chef didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
“Maybe I’ll become a sculptor!” I said, quite proud of my dash of brilliance. After all, I did in fact love to play with clay when I was younger. And anyway, how tough could that be.
She looked at me blankly.
“You can’t make a block out of clay if I asked you to” she snorted, quite deviously.
“I can too!” I interjected, quite lamely. “I made a miniature human figure out of clay when I was six!” I added. She didn’t need to know that my art teacher had thought that it was a spider.
She looked at me blankly. Again.
She did have a point.
“A food critic?” I asked, my muscles twitching.
“Our body’s not a temple, It’s an amusement park!” she replied quite dramatically.
“A pilot?” I asked my voice low and quivering.
She laughed out loud.
She did have a point.
“A National Geographic correspondent?” I asked of her, but I had already given up hope on that before she could say anything.
She shook her head.
Fifteen minutes, and a dozen career choices later, all of which were turned down, either because of my intellect, my physical health or my skill, she sat up straight in her seat, a bright glow on her face.
“It’s all planned out” she said. “You’ll do architecture, and you’ll love it!”
I stared.
She grinned at me, as if expecting to make me fall in love with her idea at once.
“Why?” I replied, monosyllabically.
“Oh come on!” she said, “You know you like it, you keep on playing those crazy simulation games everyday don’t you?” I twirled the salt cellar on the table.
She did have a point.
“And architecture will help you on your way to greatness!” she exclaimed dramatically, sounding strangely like the sorting hat.
“Try it out. You don’t want to be an engineer, right?” she asked, smiling, knowing that she had hit the target.
She did have a point.
“Uh-Huh.” I grunted. There was no way I was telling her that she had a point. No way could I see that smug look on her face. “It does sound pretty okay, but what next?” I asked, as she tittered away.
“Oh. Don’t worry about that. I’ve got your whole life planned out for you.” She giggled.
“You are sounding like one of those mothers”, I warned her, stressing on my penultimate word.
“Oh.yeah, sorry about that. It won’t happen again. So architecture, huh? It’s meant to be. Big bucks. All the glamour in the world and you just have to draw for that. After all, how hard can drawing get?”
She did have a point.
Now, three years later, I hate destiny.

I heart New York.

I miss it. I miss it all.
I miss the MUNI, the metro, the Bart.
I miss the one dollar egg rolls, the hot dog cart.
I miss the lovely doughnuts that I swore I would hate, I miss getting up late.
I miss Hulu, I miss Pandora. I even miss Taylor Swift and all the Black Eyed Peas hype.
I miss the wine tasting, the barbeque, and acting like a pretentious snob while we sipped the reds.
I miss Las Vegas, Circus Circus, the fake Eiffel tower and the fifty dollars that we bet.
I miss meetings friends, those that I haven’t thought about.
I miss the crummy diners and the wrap place which lied about selling the world’s best wraps.
I miss Gap, banana republic, old navy; I even miss those super expensive shops that we were too embarrassed to enter.
I miss Bridgette, who couldn’t add up 21 and 24 mentally and was 23 years old.
I miss the fact that Hard Rock café is just a glorified fast food joint and not all the bling-bling that it is over here.
I miss the 25 cent coins, and the nickels and dimes. The bills, the greens.
I miss the cheesecake factory with its beepers, and Gossip-Girl named waiters.
I miss their large portions which we could never finish but were still greedy enough to order our own entrees.
I miss San Francisco, I miss New York.
I miss God of small things, kitchen confidential, and the Shashi Tharoor book whose name I don’t remember.
I miss all the last minute shopping and the fact that I was selfish.
I miss the gorgeous people. The beautiful women and the handsome men.
I miss the lights of Times Square, the sights of Central Park. I miss the Upper East side and all the Upper East Siders.
I miss watching gossip girl with ads.
I miss, Little Italy and China town, and all the grit in and around it.
I miss the Meat packing district, its artsy galleries and kitschy people.
I miss the Chelsea east youth hostel, ten bunk beds in a room. I miss it being a multi ethnic soup kitchen. A culture curry.
I miss Harvard, with all its smart people and even smarter architecture. I miss the coop, and Charlie’s Bar. I miss Aiwen Lu.
I miss the crappy flights, with all the jet-lag.
I miss the Broadway, the cirque de soleil, and their ridiculously expensive tickets.
I miss the steak, the hamburger, and all things beef.
I miss the margarita, the mojito and the terminator topped with beer. I miss that I had to show my I.D every time I wanted one of these.
I miss the standard, its psychedelic elevator and all. I miss watching sitcom reruns in the morning while I had nothing else to do.
I love the yellow taxis, with all its stereotypical clichéd south Asian drivers.
I miss the office, Jim and Pam, and Chris Brown’s Forever.
I miss the fact that I did not miss Farmville, Face book, Friends and Family, though not necessarily in that order.
I miss the theatre where I saw half of Wake up Sid and slept through the other.
I miss the annoying "wateva" radio woman,and the ten odd songs that played all day.
I miss the Japanese place and the New York people.
I miss the city, with Manhattan. I even Miss Brooklyn.
I miss the joy, I miss the thrill.
I miss the sudden rush you get when you are on vacation.
But most of all, I miss you. :(

Heart's a mess.

I lost my heart the other day,
I searched for it far and wide,
This usually does not happen to me,
In you, I must confide.

I searched for it here, I searched for it there,
I searched for it everywhere,
In all the places I thought a lost heart would go,
A blood bank, a gift shop, even St. Valentine’s Cathedral.

I was about to give up all hopes then,
All dull and dejected,
That’s when I saw it right beside you,
Beating, and blushing a deep red.

I tried to call it back to me,
But all my tries were up in vain,
Tried to use its own against it,
Nothing worked, neither artery, nor vein.
I couldn’t see what it saw,
Heartless that I was,
What else would I be now?
I had suffered a great heart’s loss.

As a last resort, I told it
“You wouldn’t survive without blood”
It stared at me rather pointedly,
And said, for you, it would even eat mud.


It wouldn’t listen to me,
I thought it would listen to you,
One look of your gorgeous face,
It struck, heck, for you, I would eat mud too!

iLike

Music and I never got along. You could blame it on the fact that I am tone deaf or the fact that I can’t seem to remember more than two lines on any song that I might like/ crave or want to hear.
There have been days when I thought that Pink Floyd was a person and thought that Eminem was cool. Back when Desi pop existed and the only bands I had heard of were Metallica and Linkin Park (probably because they were etched out on our class room desks).
But slowly, I grew older, and the music around me did too. I experimented. I tried. I tested.
The Hindi songs had been hidden, and the soundtracks deleted.
And so now, I seek redemption. So here’s a list of 50 songs that I like. Two words. Go listen.

Sour Cherry – The Kills
Breakfast in NYC – Oppenheimer
Boys don’t cry – The Cure
Don’t look away – Joshua Radin
Shut up and drive – Rihanna
Always Love – Nada Surf
Hot and Cold – Katy Perry
Stripper - Soho Dolls
Girl you really got me now – Van Halen
We used to be friends – The Dandy Warhols
This Modern Love – Bloc Party
Torn – Natalie Imbruglia
Apologize – Timbaland
Just call me angel of the morning – The Pretenders
Section 9 - The polyphonic Spree
Jealous Girls – The Gossip
Do You Wanna – The Kooks
Where’d you go – Fort Minor
Hallelujah – John Cale
Believe – The Bravery
Vertigo- U2
Sand in my shoes - Dido
Kiss me – Six Pence None the Richer
Nice Dreams – Radiohead
Let’s go to the mall – Robin Sparkles
I kissed a girl – Katy Perry
These Photographs – Joshua Radin
Something to believe in – Aqualung
Little Boxes – Death Cab For Cutie
Popular Mechanics for Lovers – Beulah
The Reason – Hoobastank
Walking on the sun – Smash Mouth
Trouble Sleeping – The Perishers
Young Folks – Peter, Bjorn and John
Beautiful Beat – Nada Surf
Thank you – Dido
Crime Wave – Crystal Castles
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps – Doris Day
Caught in the Rain – Preston School of Industry
Gorgeous Behavior – Marching Band
Opposites attract – Paula Abdul
I Miss you – Blink 182
Soul meets Body – Death Cab for Cutie
Boom Boom Pow – Back Eyed Peas
Everytime – Lincoln Hawk
The way we get by – Spoon
I’d rather be with you – Joshua Radin
Right Round – Flo Rida
How Good It Can Be – The 88
If You Leave - Nada Surf

Circa 08

Destiny was back.
And so was I.
The sky was a crisp orange, the clouds hung low and lethargic. It was one of those days you would have preferred enjoying from the confines of your room, but still weren’t.
Neither was I.
I was waiting at the same café, with a similar croissant.
She walked in like a breeze, her wavy hair askew. She looked different now; it had been four years after all.

She smiled apologetically, but I knew she didn’t mean it. She never did.
She looked at me. I looked at her. There was nothing else to do.
“So.”, she started, after a particularly long pause in which I chomped off half of my croissant. I had a strong urgent feeling of Déjà vu.
I stared at her pointedly.
“All’s well?” she asked, acting innocent. Typical, I thought.
“No!” I replied, monosyllabically, a bit louder than I should have had, making the couple on the table next to ours jump up a bit.
“Uh-huh, so what’s wrong?” she asked, nibbling at the end of her chocolate tart.
I stared at her pointedly.
“Architecture” I said, as she nibbled at her tart again, “Remember that? Big bucks, all the glamour in the world and easy drawings?” I drawled sarcastically, putting in the drawl, so that she would understand that I was not happy.
She didn’t.

“Uh-huh” she said again, twirling her paper umbrella in her sweet lime, “ So let me get it straight, you don’t like it now, do you?”, she continued.
I would have had liked nothing better than to take the umbrella out of her drink and thrust it up her nose.
“News flash!” I said coldly, trying to keep the contempt and hysteria in my voice to a bare minimum. “Three years. No money. No glamour and I am not even going to tell you how tough the drawings can get!” I continued, noticing the slightest amount of derision in my voice. “And it’s third year!” I added in an exasperated tone, half-annoyed, half-surprised as to why she wasn’t getting my point.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tried to look away.
Her cell phone started ringing. “Question, tell me what you think about this…” crooned the phone. Destiny’s child’s Independent Woman. Clichéd.
She cut the call, as her forehead creased up with wrinkles. “Not important” she told me, dismissively.
I stared at her pointedly.
“So, where were we?” she asked.
I was sure she was out to get me.
“Oh yeah, I remember”, she said, calmly, taking a small bite out of her tart. She twitched her nose,” It’s too sweet for me, anyway, I think you should stop making a big deal about this, This year’s going to be fine!”
“Yeah?” I asked forcefully, “and how would you know?” I continued, not quite able to mask my irritation.
She stared at me pointedly.
“Uh-huh” I said, apologetically. She was destiny after all.
“Yeah, chill it”, she said dreamily, as if the last two minutes had never happened, “it’s going to be all right in the end. You’ll finish your work, have a great holiday, and not to forget, fourth year’s going to be a breeze!” she continued, smiling the dazzling smile of hers.
“Easy peasy”, she said, acting as if it summed it all up to that. “Trust me, I know!” with the air of someone who seemed to know a lot more than I did.
I stared at her pointedly.
Now, one year later, destiny doesn’t seem all that bad. :P