Decadence.

I love chocolates.

As much as this has been confessed, ad nauseam, I don’t think anyone is going to tire saying so.

These three words may come only second to ‘I love you’ in its vast usage.

I really do love chocolates...the bitter(darker) the better. The aroma...the taste...the feeling...Ah! Sweetness.

When I mention chocolate, I don’t mean the hard, toffee kind. Imagine Dairy Milk bars, Toblerone and ... you get the idea! But what really bugs me is the adulterations that accompany the chocolates these days in the name of flavor and variety. What’s wrong with the chocolate bars with just cocoa in it? Peppermint is an exception! Apart from that who the hell wants raisins, caramel, wafers, nuts and all such dirt with it? Chocolate is perfection in itself, isn’t it?

There is again the never ending debate on how best to consume chocolates. Though it’s polite to take bite-size pieces and indulge in the awesomeness without compromising your decency and saving your hands, mouth, teeth and lips, I feel that that is no way to savor chocolates. Occasionally I feel we need to give in to the craving and enjoy like 2 year olds –messy hands, chocolaty lips and chins and a wide grin.

And then there is the best way to do it. Hold the chocolate in between your warm hands. Wait for it to thaw. When it is ready, shred all the million wrappings around it except for the inner most golden/ silver foil. Now the consistency is very important; too frozen or too fluid-y won’t do the work. It needs to be just right. Wrap all of the foil and chocolate in your index finger and press hard to prick a small opening on the upside of the foil. Knead the almost drippy bar between your thumb and third finger for it to raise and ooze out of the foil fissure. And suck. The slow rush of warm, molten chocolate in the mouth is nothing beyond heaven. Molten. Chocolate. All consuming!

There really isn’t any better way to enjoy the pleasure. Is there? Is there?

"Kiss me ... close your eyes ... miss me ... Happy-ness in your eyes ... Kiss me..."

Migraine attacks!

I’m lying in my bed, still as ice. I try to close my eyes. But it feels like there are million small pins wedged in-between the lids. I’m distracted by the tinkling of the wind chimes in the farthest corner of the room. Has it always been this loud? The dull droning of the ceiling fan, the whining of the A/C - all these sound magnified too. Funny thing about these headaches! When all you want to do is close your eyes and tune out everything else, that’s when the stupid mind seems to find an insane urge to heighten all the senses. I pull my arm over my head to shut out the light streaming in from the streetlamps, uncharacteristically bright, through the curtained windows. Tears escape me helplessly. I swallow hard only to regret the bitter after-taste of medicine that is still lingering in the depths of the mouth even after a spoonful of honey. I tiredly cast around for something to concentrate. My stomach grumbles loudly, but the thought of food... Ugh! It makes me really uncomfortable. Nauseous!

The only sense that isn’t uncomfortable right now is the soft nudging I feel against my chest and my arm; the warm sweet breath on my neck. I softly turn around and roll over the bundle a little farther away into the more comfortable bed space. I lift my freed right arm, only to reinforce the protection against my eyes and ears. Even these tiny movements increase the pounding in the head.

All I need at this moment is a warm shoulder to lean against; soft tender fingers to reach under my hair and apply pressure in areas around the right ear lobe; gentle caress spreading the icky pain balm on my forehead; a wet kiss on the eyelid. To divert my mind, I need to hear talks about things for which the maximum response I’m expected to give are 'hmms' and 'amms'. Finally a whisper to say softly yet firmly, 'Try to sleep. The world can wait'. I want you.

You. Come home to me. Now!

I can then curl up on your arms and try to sleep.

Ode to a dear friend

It all started on a boring, rainy December evening, some six years back. I was stuck at work doing some maintenance and monitoring tasks. Lots of free, undisturbed time on hand and I had nothing better to do. So I decided to while away the remaining time by sharing some tit-bits about me and my views on few arbitrary things to her.

My neighbor!

My reasoning was ‘All my friends have one such. Why not I?’ Like pen-pals. Like rayil snegham, believing it to be almost ephemeral. For one, I had no intention of maintaining much contact. Or for that matter neither was I counting on sustaining interest (either ways) much longer. Sensible or otherwise, I told her what I wanted to tell, only in the way I wanted to tell and only to the extent I wanted to tell. Succinct hints and elaborate exaggeration were how I made her see me.

My Ego!

But we, she and I, have come a long way from that point on, together. What started out as a mere acquaintance slowly steadied itself to become friendship which later solidified as the most dependable confidant I ever had.

My Diary!

Ah! What all had we seen and felt. She had been my cheery mate when I was exuberant; had patiently held against my rants and angst; had, as well, bravely endured my nonsense for most part; had stood by me and mourned with me for my losses and failures; had been, and is, my identity, for some people; had seen me lonely, high, depressed, boring, unashamedly happy, secretive, dysfunctional, naughty, blank, vile, in and out of love etc; been part of my greatest joys and memorable seconds; been a medium of communication, an undelivered letter, when what is being said is too much to be shared in person. After all that, she has stuck with me, like a dear that she is.

My Conscience (sort of)!

Through her I can see the passage of time and with each turn I’m glad she was there to be part of it, to share with me and support me. I can clearly see, through her, the changes in my heart, the maturity of my thoughts, my sincere doubts and my unfulfilled dreams.

My Pensieve!

Sadly, for most part of the time I ignore her. Like routine. But when things tilt a little from that routine, I rush to find her waiting to listen and comfort. Once I divulge all my fears and anxieties and secrets, I feel a huge burden has been lifted off of me. Like with the belief in God, the need intensifies when I’m feeling powerful emotions and when I’m helpless and in want of something anything to help me out. I know it’s too selfish to be so, and I have tried to confess and promise I will ‘mind’ more regularly, but only to have the promise broken. Again!

Nevertheless, I’m really thankful for this friend. Just for being there for me!

This blog is now officially 200 posts old. A momentous moment at Pensieve!

But I want to commit. I want to be able to be regular. I need to finds avenues to enjoy indulging. I want to experiment, learn. I want to be prompted. I would like to be supported. I want an audience.

My Passion!

I’m a genius...

...when it comes to coming up with better comebacks once after the conversation is over. Stray thoughts may bring forth some memory or the other, where I would wish I had responded in some other way, than what has already been done or said. I'd go like, ‘Damn! This is what I should have said. What was I thinking saying that?’

Few memories are fine as they are whereas some others bother me in hindsight. I don’t really know why it matters when it doesn’t and couldn’t matter no more.

Yet still, for certain instances in my past, if given a chance again, I think I would react differently or say something more profound. But I’m not sure if what I say or do now would be totally satisfactory or if it would lack at a later retrospection.

Then why do I feel that way? Why do I feel the urge to change? Maybe, by trying to change what has happened, I'm looking at ways to – leave a lasting impression? Change the perception of me? Prove my intellect better? Find more answers?

Or is it an attempt to find a closure? Is it an inability to live in the moment? Or is it living too much in the moment to radically think of the future? Or is it purely whimsical or abnormal or just an insane attempt to change the present by trying to change the past?

Over-analyzing does kill. It kills the fun. While doing that mentally (in all the sense of the word) I might lose few instants of concentration in the present, which would eventually give food for future introspection. Sounds like a vicious cycle.

Mother said to me once, ‘Life should be lived, really, not just in head...’. But if I’m to heed to that, I’m going to need a newer obsession.

I never have. I never will.

The door swayed ever so lightly and faint light slithered noiselessly inside. The movement brought a fresh draft of air into the room and I opened my eyes just in time to catch the familiar retreating figure of the help. I gave attention to her only long enough to think ‘I will ask for water the next time she peeks inside’ and was about to close my eyes when something else caught my attention. Someone was behind the door, almost motionless like a shadow. Whoever it was, caught the swaying door before it could snap shut. But the shadow did not advance.

I was, by then, used to having the help check up on me to make sure I was comfortable, which I was far from, though of course she didn't need to know that. But that shadow was an addition to the familiar mind-numbing routine.

Even in the gloom there was no mistaking the shadow. If my thoughts had a voice it would have yelled in joy. If my heart was not already erratic it would have stuttered from the ecstasy. She stood in the doorway studying the room. And from what I could see of her expression I imagined that she was hesitant to enter. I raised my right arm ever so slightly to motion her inside. She was still undecided so I left my hand hover for a few seconds (with every effort that I could garner) to make her understand that I wanted her to come near. The image of the unacknowledged raised hand brought back into memory another vivid one, though then the roles were reversed and I was the one who was hesitant to take the hand. I wondered if she remembered that time from long ago. She left the door half parted and walked in slowly and deliberately ignoring my raised arm, came to stand by my other side. She was close enough now for me to see her properly. Time had had no influence over her. She looked exactly like from my memory.

"Hi" I tried to say and was surprised to hear how cracked and hoarse my voice was. I definitely needed some water.

She was watching me intently, with something besides worry in her expression. Her eyes roved everywhere about me, about the room too but not quite meeting my gaze. I had no mind for anyone, anything. Had the room been suffocating-ly full with people and their talks, I wouldn’t have noticed at that point, and that wouldn’t have surprised me.

She slowly asked "Couldn’t you have at least watched where you were going?" Like always, I was surprised by her choice of that as the first question. Everyone who saw me would be either empathetic or patronizing or easily repulsed. But no one would dare to have put such a question to me, at least not on face and definitely not then. But I had to give it to her to ask the weirdest of questions at the weirdest of times.

Apart from the surprise my mind also lingered on the tone of the voice. The voice held the same magic I was so used to. It had the same lilting quality that had appealed to me, and it made my thoughts flutter. But right then it was tainted with just a bit of exasperation.

A weak chuckle escaped my lips. And that was when she finally looked at me, in the eye. Innocent, questioning, soul searching look was what I remembered most of her eyes. But the eyes that looked at me from behind the swollen lids appeared weary and tired, with barely any hint of the former naughtiness or warmth.

Had she been crying, I wanted to ask. But the way our eyes connected I completely forgot about it. She tilted her head to the left smiled ever so lightly at me, and I could see some of the warmth creep back into her eyes again. She started at me for a long moment her face full of question and the anticipated nervousness at the answers I might provide. I wondered again if she was recalling the ancient grief of our last meeting.

I tried to shrug, an unadvisable thing to do, for the spasm of pain took me over. I concentrated hard not to wince, not to betray my weakness in front of her. I had to act, as I have always had to when around her. She was not one to be fooled and her eyes rarely missed the insignificants as she diverted her attention again to the state of me. Wherever her eyes touched my body it was like a warm caress and momentarily I could not remember any burning agony.

I could see tears forming at the corners of her eyes though she fought hard to swallow it. As always I tried to ease the hurt she felt because of me. I attempted to talk, but my voice was barely a grunt from want of water. I mumbled, "You look the same. You haven’t changed at all".

I heard her sigh and a genuine smile spread across her face.

I took heart and asked her "How are you?" I instantly regretted the emotion that crept into the simple question. She replied very softly "In a lot of trouble" with a small smile. I needn’t have to ask any further for what she meant by that. Again, I was sorry she was troubled on account of me. I sighed and I was once again over-powered by my want of water. Ignoring that I searched around for what to say next, to make her comfortable, but she did not seem to find my silence disturbing. Rather she sat there as a warm comfort to me, with her fingers entwined in my left hand.

I relaxed at the touch and just lay there almost as still as my body would let me when many pains and flashes of memories and anger and dejection and regret washed over me. It was like yesterday when we…

I felt, rather thought, the hair brushed back from my face with the gentlest of a touch and felt a warm pressure on my forehead. Slowly I opened to my eyes to see.

Someone was behind the door almost motionless like a shadow. Whoever it was, caught the swaying door before it could snap shut. But the shadow did not advance.

But the familiar scene from moments ago (was it just moments?) was blaringly different.

She was not coming for me. She was retreating from me. The lingering warmth of the soft pressure on the forehead and the tingling at the point of the contact were the only real thing. I wanted to cry. I wanted to call her back. I couldn’t find my voice. I wanted something for my thirst. What was that?

I don’t remember what. I just couldn’t care more.

I turned my head to glance back at the place where she had sat and tried to imagine her there again. To find comfort in the seconds that made me peaceful, albeit momentarily! There in the chair she had sat, within my reach, was a warm sterile bottle of drinking water.

I hated the sight of it.

But how can I hate something for which I crave the most? Can I?

Hey, what do you know?

This template seems more me than the previous one, doesn’t it? Happened to come across this beauty while I was following a few blogs on Bharathiyar. Liked it much and so after enormous amount of googling, here I’m produly presenting the newer version of the Pensieve. Think I will add some really cool gadgets too.

Another reason for the make-over is, this blog is very near to acheiving a significant milestone. Being as alive as this blog is, the When part is rather unknown. But for the same reason, the What part is very significant.

When or what, who cares. It's sure going to happen some day and in (advanced)celebrating that day is this change.

Just 2 more to go. Watch this space for more!

Ciao, until then!

Kannai vittru vaangum oviyam

As always, as I was travelling to work, my bus was stuck in a red-light behind a huge line of vehicles in such a way that it was doubtful if it would make it before the red again. I had the music on in my FM and was half between sleep and thoughts when suddenly it caught my eyes. Well, not exactly “caught” because I have been through this path almost daily for two whole years. But today somehow the cursory glance outside the window made me look properly as somehow the sight in front of me was exactly in sync with the thoughts in my head, at that moment.

Between two huge corporate buildings with their unnaturally clean walk-ways and windows, nestled almost in their shadow was a v-shaped dark lane. That house was the first in that lane, facing the road. It’s not much a house than a hut with dried palm and coconut leaves as roof. The bricked walls of the house were cemented with sand (or that’s the look it had) and no paint. The house simply appeared to be single roomed. Outside, near to the entrance to the house, on the floor, a small circular clearing had been made, swept deeply clean and stained with water and adored with a beautiful kolam. The beauty of the fresh wet-sand and the think white lines on it was eye-catching. To complete the picture of the house was the line of asbestos stuck continuously to form a fence kind of thing. Inside the make believe compound wall, on the left side of the house a huge plant, very pregnant with flowers was throwing few of them down when it swayed to the gentle breeze caused by the crossing of vehicles in the road. On the other side, in a make-do garage, there was a tall iron pole with assorted junk materials at its foot, towering above the house. From the pole hung a huge rope supporting a heavy tire at its free end, and a small boy of 5-6 years was swinging from it. Another child around the age of 10-11 was lying on the floor just inside the main door with books and notebooks about her. Her mother was sitting just on the other side of the tin door sieving and cleaning rice on a muram. All three of them seemed to be holding some conversation. The sound of TV from inside the house drowned their voices.

Somehow this picture is stuck in my head. I don’t know these people. I don’t know their life’s ups and downs to comment on them. But yeano I feel jealous of them. Could be my imagination, but I’m awed by their simple lifestyle. I’m tempted to compare my own with that of them. No worries about the maid coming in at time, no worries to ready the child and self in time for the pick-up buses, no worries about day-care, no worries about travel and tickets and luggage, no worrying about exercise and reduce/ maintain weight for better health and heart, no irritation at having to “decide” everything and then agonizing over the decision to work, no censure on what you do with your life, not being judged because you took a step to do the thing that you felt is right for you, no worries about too much worrying, no stress to keep you up at night, not skipping a moment of clarity to celebrate love nor mourn the loss of one, no need to plan for the weekend to actually live the life, no need to schedule romances, not a want for time-tabling and engaging every moment of the day, no pressure to be constantly available through mobile, email, social net and other headaches and finally no stressing about ‘where I’m and where I’m going and where will I be’, no constant struggle between ‘what I want and what I have’ and regretting the choices, not hating the availability of so many options to choose from, no inane thirst to prove self worth and at some point confused as to ‘whom I should prove it to anyway’, not being content with the hard earned luxury and so being unhappy because of that.

Ah! The pleasures of simple life; the contentment of having only the most basic of things! I believe I would have been happier if I were to have lived in the 50s and 60s when choices were limited and even with limited options that were there, life was fairly guided and priorities were hard set and life was accepted as it was. The picture in my head is the perfect setting. Wistful thinking, it is - a simple land to call home, two children to call me mMa, a husband to tend for me, a life to live and love, a family to love me for what I’m, friends to call on me and being all this much more to them in return. Money, success in society, name and fame and growth and what-nots can all wait for all I care.

காணி நிலம் வேண்டும் பராசக்தி காணி நிலம் வேண்டும் - அங்குத்
தூணில் அழகியதாய் நன்மாடங்கள் துய்ய நிறத்தினவாய் - அந்தக்
காணி நிலத்திடையே ஓர் மாளிகை கட்டித் தர வேண்டும் - அங்குக்
கேணியருகினிலே தென்னைமரம் கீற்றும் இளநீரும்

பத்துப் பன்னிரெண்டு தென்னைமரம் பக்கத்திலே வேணும் - நல்ல
முத்துச் சுடர் போலே நிலாவொளி முன்பு வரவேணும் - அங்குக்
கத்தும் குயிலோசை சற்றே வந்து காதிற் படவேணும் - என்றன்
சித்தம் மகிழ்ந்திடவே நன்றாய் இளந்தென்றல் வரவேணும்

பாட்டுக் கலந்திடவே அங்கே ஒரு பத்தினிப் பெண் வேணும் - எங்கள்
கூட்டுக் களியினிலே கவிதைகள் கொண்டு தர வேணும் - அந்தக்
காட்டு வெளியினிலே அம்மா நின்றன் காவலுற வேணும் - என்றன்
பாட்டுத் திறத்தாலே இவ்வையத்தைப் பாலித்திட வேணும்