December 30, 2010

That strange thing called memory...

It’s terrifying, the thought of not being able to remember anyone or anything that has been an important part of your life. It scares me more than the thought of dying alone.

I was randomly reading online yesterday, when I suddenly remembered something I wanted to read about, and by the time I had opened a new window to search for it, I had already forgotten what it was. In two seconds. I had blanked out. I had absolutely no clue what I’d been wanting to search, and I had a mild panic attack. For some strange reason, I was suddenly reminded of my late grandfather, my mom’s dad, who had Alzheimer’s towards the end of his life.

I’ve never told you about my grandfather, have I? A finer man, I’m yet to come across. P.V.Damodaran Nambiar, even the name commands respect. No, he was not like the quintessential grandfather in your huge old ancestral home, plump with a booming voice and an ever-forgiving nature, who chewed betel leaves and gave you toffees. He was tall, more than 6 foot tall, thin as a reed, with pure white hair and beard, ala M.F.Hussain. People on the roads would point to him in wonderment, thinking he was M.F.Hussain. For as far back as I can remember, he’d been like that. He was soft spoken and walked with a slight hunch. He was quick to scold if we did something he didn’t like, but just as quick to appreciate if we did something good. He had nimble fingers, which I admired a lot. I was his favourite, because I was the youngest. He was my favourite among all my grandparents, don’t know why. He was also the most respected among his family members, and the most loved among friends.
He had had a tough life, with being the eldest of a large number of siblings and his father passing away quite early on. He took care of everyone.

And for me, maybe I loved him so much- I think I was more in awe of him than anything else- because I used to love the way he spoke English, weird as that may seem. I feel- and would strongly like to believe- that I picked up the love for the language from him. After he passed away, when we were at our native place, my uncle and I were cleaning up the old house, when we found a stack of old diaries belonging to him. Even the daily entries, the mundane points, were so impeccably written. And his handwriting was like perfect italics font.

Old age struck him with a vengeance, having no mercy. He had varicose veins, bronchial ailments, cataract, and the worst of them all, dementia, which the doctor told was the starting of Alzheimer’s. Oh it’s a terrible thing to happen, dementia. It draws away from you, slowly, painfully, what was rightfully yours- your memories- and leaves you with a ghost of an old man. Towards the end, he had no memory of us, he didn’t recognize any of us, except for in flashes. He lived in the past. The past where he was younger, maybe happier, with all his children with him, his beloved three children who he loved so much, and who loved him just as much. The past where he was a handsome young man- he was just as handsome when he was old- riding his bullet and picking up his daughters from school.

I had spent an entire summer with him, my grandma, my mom and my uncle, in that rambling old house in Nadapuram. I’ll never forget that summer, I don’t wish to, because it was then, when my grandfather could no longer remember me, that I grew more fond of him. I developed a new affection and respect for him. We all used to sleep in the huge master bedroom upstairs, some on bed, some on floors, because we had to constantly keep an eye on him. He would wake up suddenly, walk to the window, mumbling, holding on to the bars and looking outside into the night, refusing to come back to bed sometimes, and suddenly he would look at me, smile, and I would see a flash of recognition in those beautiful wise eyes, and I would hopefully smile in return, hopeful that at least now, he would pat my head and call me Ammu..But just as soon as it came, the moment would be gone. And I remember thinking, I wish I were a part of his past, at least then he would remember me.

What would it be like, to not remember anything anymore? To be surrounded by people who you don’t recognize anymore? To be bathed and fed like a baby, after living a full, active life where you never depended on anyone for anything? To wake up suddenly in the middle of the night and not know what time of the day it is, because time is not really a factor for you anymore? It’s terrifying. I always used to wonder, what would he be thinking, what is going through his mind, if only I had a way to know.

I have seen the pain my mom and everyone else has been through, taking care of him. He reached a point where he couldn’t even go to the bathroom on his own. It’s not easy, you know, taking care of your aging parents the same way they took care of you when you were a baby. There’s no excitement and joy and pride. There’s just a lot of sorrow and pain, and sometimes sympathy, for this person who was your hero at one point of time. But every hero falls sometime or the other, doesn’t he? I hope I have the courage to do it when the time comes, god forbid.

Dear Manavi, I wish you knew him, your grandfather, our ‘velyacchan’. A better man hasn’t walked this earth*, and never shall.

* From Anita Nair’s book, The Better Man.

December 10, 2010

The girl who grew up...

I was on my way to work today morning, walking along the winding little lane peppered with tiny little houses that connects my house to the main road. I take that same road every morning, and everyday, I see a lot of activity along that route. Women washing vessels and clothes, men leaving for work on their cycles, little girls with neatly plaited hair setting out for school, goats, chickens, an eerie little wayside temple with a black-stone idol of Shiva, kirana stores (a quintessentially Indian phenomena), etc.

Today morning, while I was walking, I saw one little girl, with a blue colour dupatta on her head, tied into a neat long plait. She must’ve been about 5-6 years old.

Pretty much the same age, that I used to do such stuff. You wouldn’t believe if I said it now, but as a kid, I loved dressing up and doing girly stuff. I was 5 when I cried to dad to buy me my first lipstick. And the doting dad that he is, he got me one. I still remember it, it was red in colour, and it used to act as my lipstick cum eyeshadow cum blush, and sometimes my sketchpen and crayon when I wanted to draw (err..alrite! scribble) on the walls. I had such a tough time throwing away the empty tube..sigh..

I used to have chocolate boxes filled with my accessories- earrings, chains, bangles, hairclips and what not. Every dress had matching accessories. There was a red and gold chappal that I really took a fancy to, bought from a street in Pune all those years ago. I used to believe that it went with any dress that I wore. It was hideous, when I look back at the photos now! But that was an age where I felt that anything bright and shiny was beautiful. :)

Sunday afternoons, when mom, dad and my sis were having their routine siesta, I used to get to work. Anyone who used to come down from the US or Dubai, used to get me a make-up kit, so well-known was my fondness for it. So on Sunday afternoons, I would take out these boxes, meticulously put on the make-up (and trust me, I was pretty good at it. I knew what all had to be applied where, and in what amount), then I would take out my favourite green dupatta with the gold sequins at the edges, pin it up safely on to my hair, and plait it. That dupatta was like a friend, I always had it with me. Boredom was never an option for me, as long as I had my dupatta and make-up boxes and ‘other accessories’, as my mom used to call it. :)…

I miss that girl…somewhere along the way, adolescence took its toll, and scorn for that little girl set in. I abandoned all those accessories that were part of my girlhood, and opted to go for what was in style. I stopped wearing bangles and bindis and big earrings. My mom still asks me, why I stopped wearing all that…When I saw that girl today, all those memories just rushed back, and the first thing I did was call up my mom and tell her. Because that lady has put up with all that the most, and nobody would understand it better. And you know, my mom has not thrown away a single one of those things that I cherished- right from the boxes of ‘fancy items’(just like supermarkets give me a high today, fancy stores used to be my fascination then), ribbons, hair-bands, clips, beads, to the bag of clothes that I’d stitched for my Barbie dolls( I was an aspiring fashion designer at one time)- everything is intact. She never asked me whether she can throw them away or not- she just continues to preserve them for me. For what reason, I know not.

This post is dedicated to mom, and to my dad and sis, for never making fun of that little girl or forcing her to grow up sooner than she ought to have.

Sometimes I wish I never had...

December 6, 2010

To throw or not to throw...

I’ve never been a fan of packing. I’ll avoid it as far as possible and put it off till the last minute. Earlier, when we went on our annual summer vacations to our native place, mom used to take care of the packing. Clothes used to be neatly piled on the bed first, then packed, according to ‘how soon will we need them’ and ‘how often will we need them’. The packing used to go on till late at night, because, by principle, none of us travel light, except dad. Mom always carried extra clothes, in case it rained, even in summer. I won’t laugh at that, coz even I’ve inherited that streak. I always end up packing for 5 days on a two-day trip. Mom never used to let us touch the bag and used to personally take out whatever we needed and give us, because if we go through it, there’s just a jumble remaining. I hate folding clothes. I tend to roll them up in a ball or something resembling folds and push it into my bag. And then I rummage through the pile, much like those goons who ransack people in movies. No kidding. And my sister’s no less. Fortunately for her, she married a guy who loves packing.

Anyways, in case you’re wondering what brought out this onslaught of packing memories, let me elaborate. I recently shifted my house to another one in the city, with a roommate. I had been living alone for more than a year, first in a 2bhk, then in a 1bhk. One major thing you need to keep in mind if you’re thinking of taking a house is:- you will accumulate a helluva lot of stuff, especially if you’re a hoarder like me. I cannot throw stuff away, another thing I’ve inherited from mom. It’s the most difficult thing in the world for me. I may not have sentiments attached to it necessarily, but I will always think of some possible future use of it when I consider throwing it away. And there it goes back to where it was hibernating since 1922. Back when I was a kid, I once remember fighting with dad coz he wanted to throw away one of my old, ragged, beyond-its-expiry-date doll with no hair and one hand missing, during one of his spring-cleaning sessions. I won.

One of my friends was helping me out with my packing this time. The name I earned at the end of it- aakri (which roughly translates into scrap/scrap-collector ). And rightly so, I have to grudgingly accept. By the end of the packing, I had five huge cartons, two suitcases, two bags, plus a lot of plastic packets filled with odds and ends. All this for just one person! What will I do once I start my own family! I’ll have to order an entire train to carry my stuff! And this too, after I’d given off a bunch of old clothes away. I had to arrange for a tempo to move my stuff.

Now the next huge task awaits me. Unpacking the stuff and putting it away in their rightful places. And now I’m back in a 2bhk. More space. More opportunities to accumulate.

I sincerely hope my roommate likes to throw things away...

October 7, 2010

Back on track...

It all started on a summer morning in May 2009.
I stood on platform number one of Lingampally station, waiting for the train to get to Rajbhavan Road. My first day at my first job.
The train came, I got in, got off at Necklace road station after 45 minutes, and walked to my office. That same afternoon, after an uneventful first day, I took a train back to Lingampally.
I think, I can safely mark that day, May 1st 2009, as the day when my tryst with the MMTS began.

What followed were days of running for the train (I’m not exaggerating), waiting on the platform endlessly, getting worried then pissed off, because first of all, I was taking a later train, and that itself was late. You start noticing the same people everyday, a pattern sets in. If I see a certain bunch of women on the platform, I know the train hasn’t come yet. If there’s a passenger train on platform one, I know my train is late by fifteen-twenty minutes.

One of my friends used to call the 9:10 train my boyfriend. :) …I would wake up late, rush through coffee and getting ready, and I would literally run to the station. Every single day, I used to test my luck, by leaving from home 2-3 minutes late, and believe me, even two-three minutes count a lot. I would reach the platform out of breath, and there it was, waiting for me to arrive. I would get in, and the very minute, it would leave the station. And I would sit at almost the same seat in the same ladies’ compartment every day. Nothing else would do. To the point that if I couldn’t get my usual seat, I had an impending sense of doom, that my day would not go well if I sit somewhere else. My entire day used to be planned depending on the train-timings. When I took out the timetable to check the timings, my friends used to say that I’m taking out my Bible. :)
I’ve read so much sitting in the train, coz that’s the only time I used to get to read.
There would be women jabbering away about the price of rice and dal, their children’s examination, husband’s promotion.. All one has to do is lend an ear. Full entertainment.
Sometimes, workers would get in, with their duplicate phones, and Altaf Raja would be belting out ‘Tum tho thehre pardesi, saath kya nibhaaogeeeee..’ So many times I’ve wanted to snatch their phones and throw it away..

The return journey was not as easy. The trains at night would be a minimum of half an hour late. I used to think, my entire life would probably pass just waiting for the ‘sir’ to arrive. And then it would waddle along at its own sweet pace, and then unashamedly stall in between for another twenty minutes. By the time I get home, it would be two hours since I left office. Necklace Road station is where I spent a lot of time brooding, laughing, crying, thinking, looking at the lake in the distance. The benches there would know…

There was a time when I reached the station 9:15 at night, to take the 9:30 train. It came at 10:30 finally. And I reached home at 11:15, all alone. I still don’t know how I survived that day. I guess living alone hardens you to a large extent. Another time, I reached the station to take the last train back- 9:57pm. The station was pitch dark,no electricity, with just a handful of people, and I don’t remember seeing any women. There were no policemen either. Somebody passed a comment. I actually prayed that day. I promised myself and god I wouldn’t try to do such brave stupid things ever again.

The best thing about travelling by public transportation is that you get to see a lot of people, all ages and classes. And some you can never forget. Like there was this one girl I used to see everyday taking the same train as me in the morning, and sometimes the same one back. She was very pretty, and probably had been married recently, going by the traditional bangles on her slender wrists. She was very beautiful, and I always used to stare at her. And then a few months later, I saw a small bump forming on her stomach. For some inexplicable reason, I was silently happy for that strange girl. Then one night, I was in the train back home, and she got in from the next station. Her tummy had grown a bit more by then. It was pretty late, around 9 in the night. She sat looking out of the window. There was fatigue written on her face. Then slowly, her eyes started closing due to the fatigue, and her head was rolling from here to there. I felt sad for her, I don’t know why. Wasn’t there anybody to come and pick her up from office, especially when she was pregnant? Why was she having to work in this condition? Did her husband not treat her well? Did she have to go back home now and cook dinner? There were so many questions in my head. Her beauty seemed very melancholic at that moment. I hope, wherever she is now, she’s happy, and so is her baby.

Another time, a lady got in with her daughter and occupied the seat opposite me. She was a daily wage labourer, I could make out. Thin as a reed, with an excuse of a sari covering her, she looked as though she hadn’t eaten and slept in days. And her little daughter, not more than four years old, holding her mother’s hands and sitting, her innocence still intact. I looked at them for a while, then resumed looking out of the window. After a while, I could feel somebody’s eyes on me. I looked up to see the little girl looking at me curiously, and she suddenly looked away when I caught her eye. So I decided to stare at her, and she kept darting glances at me, then she held my gaze. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and I smiled at her. I got the sweetest smile in return. I can never forget it. I rummaged in my bag and found an apple and gave it to her. She took it without hesitation and gave me another big smile. She may not have learnt yet to say thank you, but that smile was equivalent to a million thank you’s. After a while, I noticed that the lady had started crying. Weeping, her chest heaving. Her daughter, not knowing what was happening, kept looking at her, holding her hand. Then she rested her head on the little girl’s lap, and that innocent little thing was gently stroking her mother’s head, comforting her like only a kid can. The lady then took out a pen she had and scribbled something on the girl’s hand. There was a moment of terror in my heart. What is she writing down? Why is she writing it down? Is it a number that people can contact and hand over the girl to when the mother’s body is discovered? I don’t know…I was scared for the little girl. A little while later, I looked up from the book I was reading, and they were gone..just like that. I don’t know when they got down, which station..I only remember praying for that innocent little thing who had gifted me a beautiful smile.

After travelling by train for a year, my office shifted, and it was getting difficult to take the train anymore. So I started travelling by road. It saved me time. But it was just not the same. And now that I’ve changed jobs, and because I’m tired of fighting with the f*&%^#g auto drivers, I’ve decided to resume my rendezvous with my old flame again. I’m prepared to wait endlessly. I’m looking forward to get some reading done. My daily dose of exercise (running) has started. And I wonder why I don’t put on weight.

Yup, I’m back on track.

May 15, 2010

What makes you really happy...

I was flipping through a film magazine during a journey, and the cover story that month was regarding what made the stars really happy. I kinda liked the idea, coz even i basically believe that one cant always be happy all the time. It's little things and happenings and words that'll make you happy. And it feels the best when it happens unexpectedly. As clich├ęd as it might sound, the more you search for happiness, the more it'll elude you.
Anyways, while i was reading it, i unconsciously began listing a few things that made me really happy..So here goes. I want you all to post your responses too, as to what makes you really happy.
(These are in a random order, whatever comes to my mind first)
# The smell of the earth when it rains.(i've mentioned it before also).
# Watching the rain, specially in the afternoon. there's something magical about the way the world changes its colour when it rains in the afternoon.
# When i go into a bookstore and see all the books around me. And when i buy a new book and carry out the ritual of writing my name and the date on which i bought it.
# The prospect of a good meal.
# When i call up my friends and i hear the smile in their voice when they pick up my call.
# Mom's call at the end of a long day, singing 'Hello Darling, what’re you doing?'. I swear, no one else can say it like that.
# Acha calling and asking, ‘Hello mole, how’re you?’. No matter how old you grow, you’re never too old for your parents.
# My sister’s ‘Amsiiii, wassup I say??!!’. I hate anyone else calling me that.
# My li’l cousin Manavi’s adorable face on my phone’s wallpaper. All I have to do is look at it, and I start smiling.
# I was traveling on work recently. I opened the drapes of the hotel room I was staying in, and I was delighted by what i saw! There was a cozy li’l seating arrangement with cushions attached to the window, where you can sit and look out at the city. It maybe difficult to comprehend for others, but I was so happy when I saw it, coz that’s the kind of thing I’ve always wanted to have in my home.:)
# A bike ride.
# When I’ve written something good, even if it’s a few scribbled lines in my notebook.
# When I find some good lyrics or poetry, I write it down, and then I just randomly take it up and read it. Feels good.
# When I’ve cooked something nice, and I see someone else relish it thoroughly.
# The sight of the gorgeous moon. Always leaves me amazed.
# I’m sitting in the station at ten in the night, totally washed out, wondering whether all this is worth, contemplating whether I should just pack up and go back home, when a message flashes on my phone, from my boss, saying how happy she’s with the work I did for the day, and that I make her life a lot easier.  Works like an instant medicine.
# The sight and sound of an aeroplane. I wish I could fly.
# A good tune, a lovely voice, sound of the rain, sound of broomsticks sweeping the road early in the morning.
# Babies. I’ll be sitting in the train, waiting for the long day to end, when I see this adorable li’l thing next to me, rubbing her cute li’l fists on her face and rubbing her tiny li’l nose on her mom’s chest. It’s the cutest sight, I tell you.
# Setting the alarm an hour before you actually have to wake up, and then knowing that you still have one more hour to sleep.
# When I see how genuinely happy my friends are to have me around.
# When my hair feels and looks good.
# A good book.
# A good cup of coffee.
# When someone totally unexpected calls m up to wish me on my b‘day.
# When I hear my own voice on the radio. No matter how many ads I’ve done till now, I still get excited when I’ve to do one.
# Bougainvilleas and Gulmohars. They’re such beautiful flowers.
# When someone appreciates my writing.
# Traveling by train and passing over a water body.

Well, guess its a rather long list..I didn't know so many things made me happy. :)

So long, folks!! Waiting for the responses.

March 15, 2010

Of trashy romances and feeling 15 again

Every girl, irrespective of how mature, practical and sensible she may seem to be, has read at least one trashy romance novel in her teenage. No doubt. Bet.
The other day, i was browsing in a book store( but of course, where else would i go?). Picked up a couple of books that i liked, and then i just went to the far-end of the store. It was one of those all-year-long-sale kinda places, where you get new books at a discount, and second-hand books for real cheap. And there i found, a virtual treasure trove of romance novels. unbelievable collection, i must admit. Teenage romances, war love stories, raunchy tales..i couldnt even reach the top of the book-shelf.I picked up a couple of random books, and i found myself rewinding to 7-8 years back. I started smiling to myself, thinking of all the mills and boons and other romance novels that i used to hog on.
Of course, none of that contributed towards making me any more romantic, but that's besides the point.
The damsel-in-distress who's saved by her knight-in-shining-armour; the independant strong working woman who becomes vulnerable when she meets the man of her dreams, who also happens to be a hunk to die for; the helpless woman who's kidnapped by the hunk of a villain, who makes love to her so passionately that she actually forgets to try and escape; teenage romances about stolen kisses in the school corridor.
Girls- i know you're smiling, thinking of the books you've read on the sly, hiding it from your mom.
Guys- you probably think its silly, but i bet your sisters and girlfriends have read it at some point of time or the other. And most of you too.

I remember, me and my friend meera- we used to be crazy about these books. if either of us got a book, we would let the other borrow it, and even give the page numbers where the romantic scenes[:D]..i used to live in that fantasy world, where i would dream of that tall, dark, handsome hero of my dreams, who'l come and just sweep me off my feet and passionately kiss me. Then he'l whisk me off to his secret exotic cottage where he would make love to me all day and all night.
I know, half of you are scandalised by now by my confessions. Point to be noted: these are confessions of a 15-year old girl.

So finally, i ended up buying two of those novels, and reading it made me feel 15 again. The age of candy-floss dreams and giggles and secrets with girl friends and first crushes, and then the second third fourth crushes [:)].

It was indeed a magical age, wasn't it?

I miss being 15. And maari, i miss giggling with you.

February 23, 2010

Timbuctoo to Malgudi via Jhumrithalaiyya

I may be a working professional now. But somewhere inside me resides that college girl who had nothing to worry about in this world.

I may be an independent girl now, but still alive is that girl who would ask her mom for money to buy a maaza or a mango delite at the college store.

I may be travelling alone back home at ten in the night now, but deep inside me, is the girl who wouldn’t even catch a bus back from college without Sree telling her which bus to get into.

I may have been made strong due to circumstances, but that girl who used to cry silently in bed at night during her last year in college, her ghost still hovers around.

People don’t change; circumstances do.

My best friend from college, Sree, got engaged. Engaged. To be married in August.
Wow. Have we grown up or what.

I just can’t believe that she’s getting married in a few months time. Actually, I can’t believe that I’ve come so far from the day I first sat in the college bus, nervous, apprehensive, but also excited at the thought that I’m going to college. College!!! That, for me, was equivalent to getting into Hogwarts. It was a magical world. But then, I’d never been to college, and as they say, the grass is always greener on the other side. When you’re in kindergarten, you want to be in school. When in school, you always get excited at the thought of going to the next class. And then, you can’t wait to start college.

The prospect of not having to wear uniforms is the most exciting aspect of going to college. I remember, going shopping for clothes before college began. I was super-excited. But then, once I had finished wearing one round of all the new clothes, I was bored. I started wishing that I didn’t have to go through the ritual of opening the cupboard every morning, scanning the clothes I had for ten-fifteen minutes even though I knew I was late, and finally picking up the first dress I could lay my hands on and rushing, because my bus-driver definitely wouldn’t empathise with my predicament.

When you’re in college, after the initial fun wears off and you remove your rose-tinted glasses (or any other shades that are in vogue then- and believe me, I’ve seen quite many colours), you then want the bigger picture. To be free of shackles, to have your own money, to be answerable to no one except yourself. It happens to everybody. No matter how much you deny it, it will catch on some time or the other.
But as I said, the grass is, and always will be, greener on the other side. Once you start working, you’ll always want to turn back time. You’ll find that you’re broke by the tenth of the month, and you have nobody to blame but yourself. You would want to bunk office, and start wishing that if only it was college, it would be so easy to bunk. You wish you were back in the back bench of your class, so that you can sleep in the afternoon after lunch break.

We’re never happy, are we?

P.S: By now, you all must be wondering what the point of this post is. Started in Timbuctoo, moved on to Jhumrithalaiyya, and ended in Malgudi. Well, that’s what happens when you take too long to write a blog. You tend to lose track.


January 17, 2010

Something for the new year...

Well, my first post for the new year. Took me some time, ya i know. But its ok. Better late than never, kadha?

The new year's been ok so far, it's only 18 days old. Spent the first day of new year packing and moving from my beautiful apartment. Ha, all good things must come to an end, so I’ve heard. Some lessons, I never learn. When my folks sold 'Flat no.___, Woodlands Apts, Jagathy, TVM', the address I’d been writing as mine everywhere ever since I remembered, I think i took it the hardest. I couldn’t believe that my home could be anywhere but flat no.___. And worse, I couldn’t even dream of someone else living there, in my room!! That was, like, my whole life. That’s where I lived for the most important years of my life. I just loved that house, the balcony, the awesome view it had, the constant breeze that kept blowing away papers and clothes and what not…I lived there, grew up there.

And then, after living there for 14 years, we moved. We moved to another flat in the same building. But it just wasn’t the same. It was not the same view. It was not the same floor. The neighbours were different. I still would press the number 4 button in the lift instead of number 3. And then, gradually, got used to the new house, the new address, the new flat number. By then I was studying in HCU, so I didn’t spend much time also there. At the end of the day, whatever it may be, home is home.

And then, when I moved into my house in Hyderabad with my roomie, we just fell in love with that flat. So much so that, even after she moved out, I continued living there, shelling out more than half my salary towards rent. It had become a standing joke for my folks and friends. It looked as though I was earning so that my house owner could pay off her loans.:). And I wouldn’t even get a roommate, coz I couldn’t stand the thought of sharing my house with someone unknown (although some others thought I was living alone for some hidden agenda. Well, as always, b@#%s to them). I just loved that house so much!!! For once, the practical side of me took a back-seat and continued denying that it was burning a hole in my pocket. But then, took a reality check, and kicked the practical side of me awake from its long slumber, and decided to move out. I added a bit of symbolism also to it, and considered it as leaving behind the past one year and all things associated with it behind me and starting anew. It was catharsis, in my own style(No offence to Mr.Aristotle)

So, here I am, in my new house, which I’m just setting up. The going’s good so far. I hope it continues.

The narcissist signs off…so long!