Itchy fingertips going tap, tap, tap. A typing diarrhea (thanks Spellcheck) while a certain someone has just emptied a rack, full of dvds (hitherto), onto the floor, and has earnestly camouflaged this disaster with the activity of sorting the same flying dvds into alphabetical order.

I love typing fast, only to go bonk bonk Backspace, which doesn't deny the potential listeners of the continued typing speed, nor can they escape the certain horror look on your face as you blink extra hard into the screen just as your Backspace eats up the blunder. This reminds me of a certain game we used to play in the computer room in college (readers, help!). A dozen circles went Doing Doing as they gobbled up food, bonus points and potential hazards, all to the tune of a torturous background music. I never got to get up from such games without a grand feeling of peaceful satiation, like the one you would feel after a full 15 Rupee thali at Mani's lunch home.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a certain number of dvds edging their way towards me for approval, for the Friday night matinee show. Also, Tschüss!

25.. and rolling

25 was always going to be the year. She had looked forward to it for a long time now, exactly 25 years.

Schweet little Remi, when she was a toddler and shamelessly naked in front of the camera at 2, had planned it out meticulously. She was going to travel, she was going to see the world, she was going to fly. She knew when she was 3 itself, what a cool consultant she would become, solving real world's problems and helping the client generate real value. Then at 5, she had secretly sworn to herself she would be a prodigy. She had two choices - music prodigy and literature prodigy. At the ripe age of 6, when she still didn't know how to keep her frock from blowing in the wind at the kindergarten swing, she knew it, sheshewsheknewsheknew. She knew the answers. And she knew she will be the prized one, the loved one, the one.

It was all happening.

(My attention has now been destroyed by the internally rotting melon still sitting proud and pretending atop the kitchen cupboard. It's been a month now since it stationed itself there. It's been 25 years now....)

Did I actually write that email? Those actual words, those extinct sentences. My regular dose of self depreciating humor is right in my mailbox. I first logged into Gmail in 2004. Since then, it has been privy to stupid emails of mammoth proportions, disaster management all through written communication, pleadings and pleasings. It's a pity I had to delete my entire iitb inbox (ca. 2005) by mistake, some horrendous emails never to be recovered. But I made up for it in unfathomable ways.

Emails "depicting" strong feelings. Tears, horror, revelations, love. I am appalled at my sense of humor back then, back then. I believe I am a very funny person, especially in my writings. My face seldom registers sweet emotions (the specific ones that make guys fall in love with you, with that smile or that dimple and that tooth), hence my resort to writing. As far as facial emotions go, I have struggled the last couple of years to volunterily raise my left eyebrow, to catch the attention of potential parties. So far I have registered a little success, only if you miss my confused right eye.

Angry emails, sorry emails, sad emails. When I go through some items, my ears flare up blushing red. Intellectual carnage of the highest order. An email (topic: feelings, 2 feet above the ground, in my preaching mode) from 2006 just caught the corner of my eye. Am I a survivor :)

Lost

Fingers crossed themselves and entangled themselves and refused to let loose. It was cold, bitter, and raining. God came walking to me with 2 nuns, sisters. I looked at my toes and said I am an atheist. Oh.. we have something especially for you, young faithless people. God came on paper and made it into my pocket, the vast repository of ringing cell phones and lost train tickets.

Now, is it not fun that 2 minutes into your seat, you seem to be unable to find your cell phone any more? You are already outbound. The network will go off in a minute, I am frantically turning the world inside my turtle bag upside down. Then comes the voice: 'call one cell phone with the other'. The sound.. the ringtone.. o2 with vodafone, direct to mailbox, god, i left one phone behind at the coffee shop. god passed under my breath, a free bird, sat on the table and mocked at me heartily.

1.. 2.. 3.. seconds.. call the person i was last with, ask him to rush back to the shop and check, call the hotel.. those sneaky thieves.. call before it's too late... make up nice excuses for losing the company phone..

I sat back into my seat. I was carrying my troubles with me at 300kmph (that's hearsay it was running around 200). There could be no relativity. Trouble was very much enjoying the view. My soul nose dived, the bike key yesterday, wallets stolen twice in a space of 3 days... how can i forget the lost school leaving certificates and the 50 others? Lost. Gone down the drain. Lost lost lost. People, money, degrees, whole years lost on me, whole jokes down the drain, failing to tickle me. Whole drives on hard disks, flat tires, friends, books. Damn sonsofbitches, return my books. Umbrella. Fake 2€ coin.

Now what have i found that can somehow compensate for my losses? A fake 1€ coin. 10€ note, muddy, wet, dropped by some drunk person. Trouble, bad strategic decisions like buying a spare set of bike tires, 3 changes of sim cards.. We know where all this is going.

Kevin Spacey forgave them all even with a bullet in his head. Beautiful life.

Cell phone beeped from inside its papery hide.

Fat song

"I want to have that nut cake." Which one, this one, partial nut and partial cream? That one? Banana on a sugary dream? Plums in a rare delight? Creamy strawberries, wholesome bright?

Choices were unlimited, the foreseeable future in the form of the fat motherly baker, gained me compassion. "I will have each of these 2" and cakes with hot chocolate was served right on.

Voices dragged me. Voices gloomily predicted fat days. Rebuked, threatened, I avoided all those hindering special effects. I fought on. Creamy strawberry tow tow, nut cake chow chow, cheesecake on the go, oh, can you please pack one of these cute little fatty choco cakes too?

No denying. Running away from some hard facts in life, my legs almost always broke down by them cakes. It was one long fat song I was singing everyday. There is nothing wrong with the world when a nusskuchen is right across the street, where colleagues give you moral support and another reason for a tub sundae, and pounds of fat gleefully get in and stay tight by your sides...

love matters

"Honey Bee, of course I love you", with those last words Bumble Bee tumbled on to his mistress and married her for life; offering his commitment, and sacrifice of infidelity, the Hornet's nest and the Beetle he had lied about.

Such was the sadness of Honey Bee. She refused to believe it till she chanced upon the songs sung by the new in-love couple together. Being together and singing was a rage among wannabe bee pairs.

Honey Bee searched for melody. Distressing voice of La Whore was multiplied in melody by the nefarious voice of Bumble Bee. The screeching melody punctured her ears. Honey was jealous, angry, and ruthless at the same time. Words came out and ended in one syllable " x-( ", never actually making it out of her mouth, but stopping right there, at the lips, going straight up to her eyes, her eyes getting crossed by the minute.

Bee in question wriggled in pain. It was an exquisite pain. Ok, here it comes. La Douleur Exquise. Except that in her tumble down from the tree top reality, Honey saw the entire world. And took a 5 km run, and some lessons from History. And she realized what she had loved was peanuts and what she had dodged was a bullet aimed straight at her heart.

natural selection

genes gleefully glided down the golden slope. dark clouds overhead, receding far away. merrily rumbling, rolling, clutching at their laughing stomachs, winking at each other, genes also small talk.

"are we flying?"

some of them leaped to the air. one kick there, on hi fi here.

in the vast genetic stumble, they made fun of each other too.

"sticky ape!"

mellow on the grass, breezing through the trees.

far above them, some kicked ass aloft gliding gently down. they could go left, go right, make fun of the ones below, but then, really see the bigger picture, from where it can be best seen: from high above. or so it seemed. they could swirl down, round and round. spiral. dive. free fall. follow the sine curve. genes sweating in fear, genes on a high.

some had things to say. some chose to remain silent.

some of them could climb up cherry trees and taste the best ones. aim the seeds on passing ants.

some madness, some despair, some lonesome, some loathsome.

some swam in holy infinity. guzzled in what the endless wheat fields had to offer. some watched as love walked by on its knees.