Mr. Toothbrush.

Gone.

2008-10-15T05:36:00.000-07:00

I had an itch in my shoe.
http://horn-ok.blogspot.com/

2008-07-10T09:49:00.000-07:00

Step on my technicolour feet if you have to.
Look through me; I'm not a spider web.
All I want is the night and the sea.
All I want is the animated discussion of a thousand trees.

2008-06-14T23:11:00.000-07:00

( Drawn sitting in Class ID when we had to go there to babysit the talibans who after realising it was a snake I was drawing hastened to enlighten me with snake trivia )

In the silence of the night,
The trees held their breath.
The moon was crescent.
The snakes aplenty.
Writhing, excited.

Little Madeleine walked in a daze
Mesmerised, in awe.
Little Madeleine shivered in anticipation
As she surveyed the sight in front of her
With bated breath.

There gleaming a shade more sinister
Than the moonlit water
Sat among rocks, snakes and silhouettes of leaves
The most beautiful thing she ever saw.
Shimmering, slithering.
Magnetic, devastating.
Chand ki rani.
Belle de nuit.

Little Madeleine squirmed.
As fevered fingers traced
The ups and downs of her face.
Little Madeleine wished
She had listened to Mommy
As a forked tongue explored her.

2008-04-23T07:43:00.000-07:00

I’m suffering.
Intensely.
I’m intensely suffering.
If ‘intense’ is the word I want.
I’m suffering in earnest?
I’m…suffering so badly it would make you weak at the knees if I told you about it?
My suffering is poetic? It’s unbearable? It’s overwhelming. It’s unadulterated.
I’m suffering…unbearably? No.
I’m suffering intensely.

And in my intense, poetic, unadulterated, unbearable, overwhelming suffering, I turn a page to look for a solution to a Math problem, expecting a few lines covering the important points in a simple, effective way, and find a caption to each solution that does nothing to soothe the nerves.
‘A nice question.’
‘Not a difficult problem.’
‘A simple, but tricky question.’
‘A difficult unfamiliar question.’
‘An unfamiliar but manageable question.’
‘A school level question.’
‘A reasonable question.’

Tcha.

2008-01-10T04:49:00.000-08:00

In another life, Bob the mosquito was idly flying, practicing an odd pirouette.
He settled on a curtain and contemplated the mysteries of life.
He thought about the weather.
He fluttered his wings, nettled about not being able to have flown to the O2 Arena to see Led Zeppelin.
He tried looking peeved, but failed badly.
He sighed.

A lady in a khaftan stiffened. She signaled to the man in the lungi.
With practiced, fluid, cat-like movements, she padded towards the curtain and stood still.
Bob’s death wasn’t messy.

I woke up last night and heard my mum and dad discussing mosquito-swatting tactics.
They didn’t take the news about my early retirement too well.

2008-01-05T04:20:00.000-08:00

The Universe has a corny sense of humour.
I don’t know if you’ve ever felt peaceful about scoring out an answer you thought was wrong and writing down the correct one instead.
Whatever little nagging doubt I had about writing it down seemed to melt away as my pen touched the paper and formed a ‘1’ after carefully drawing a line across ‘2’.
I felt content. I even managed a grin at my neighbour who regarded me impassively.

Well, it turned about to be wrong.
What’s more, the answer I scored out turned out to be right.
I ask you.

In other news, my future looks bleak.
I’ve got four months of exams to look forward to.

All That You Can't Leave Behind

2007-11-30T05:38:00.000-08:00

There was a time when we talked in hushed tones about the summer when we’d finally be free . The only summer when we wouldn’t have to groan about going back to school. We longed for it. Itched and craved.
There was a time when we made SuperSexaySimblyBrilliantThingsToDo lists, looked at it hungrily and handled it with trembling hands.
And a time when we counted the
months left for school to end.
The twinge of misery about leaving school and the colour-colour benches and everything that we grew up with lay forgotten.
That little twinge of misery has decided to make itself conspicuous and hit me with the force of a lorry.
It hurt, yes.
I moaned and whined and whimpered and sighed mournfully and went around looking like a deflated balloon swaying to dismal violin strains.
Because school is home.
School got us all together and gave us all that fuzzy sense of belonging.
School made us all frands despite our differences that stick out like a sore thumb.
And without it, I’d feel a little like Mary minus her little lamb.

(bubblewrap,yes)

Excuse me while I go sob uncontrollably on someone’s shoulder.

.

2007-11-01T07:09:00.000-07:00

One of them* had an odd gleam in her eye when she suggested having a naming ceremony for Jimmy/Rajkumar/Thingy/Dipstick.
Another one of them had an odd gleam in her eye when she decided to call the little puppy Selvaraj.
Another one of them piped up that they should have paan after the naming ceremony.
The rest of them slapped their collective foreheads and felt old.

The invitation was put up and ogled at.
Some read it and slapped their foreheads and felt old.

They* did the pooja, recited complex mantras and sighed happily.
And ate paan.

The little puppy with melty chocolate eyes has an extra bounce in his stride.
He chases pigeons.
He looks happy. All the time.
He faithfully comes up to you every afternoon and looks at you hopefully for a piece of chicken.
His name's Selvaraj.

The other boys and girls stood aside, slapped their foreheads and felt old.
They didn't puff up and feel like machoman truckdrivers when we gave them the paan.

*them: Comfortably mental people.

2007-10-16T06:35:00.000-07:00

Too lazy to be ambitious.
I let the world take care of itself.

Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;

a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.

Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?

Listening to the night rain on my roof,

I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.
-Ryokan

Just so.
My hair uncombed. Pulled carelessly into a little roll.
GettingSomeSembalanceOfOrderIntoMyLife lists lying forgotten and unattended to.
Comfortably numb to that little nudge and pang of guilt that I should be studying.
In yesterday’s clothes. I refuse to think.
Twirl my hair around my finger and sing to the darkness.
Thumb through pages of Shogun. Just a little more.
And the sappy movies. And the sinful food.
And the soft pillow by the dull glow of the bedside lamp.
Sinking into nothingness and sweet oblivion.

Oh, there’ll be more of these.
Every now and then I come out of the reverie and slap my forehead.
Just to go back to it a little later.

2007-10-13T09:18:00.001-07:00

So.
I sit here cross-legged in my antelope-jammies and my communist tee and grin sloppily at the wall.
Because grinning sloppily at walls is what I do for a living.
It has been too long since I perked up, stifled a guffaw and waddled with excitement to get myself a paper and a pencil and write what suddenly popped up in my mind.
Too long.
I feel old.
And very much like the balding dude in Southpark, reclining in a chair and listlessly playing War of the Worlds all day for lack of anything more productive to do.
I also feel the words ‘Slovenly’, ‘Slob’, ‘Couch-potato’, ‘Slothful’ and other more effective synonyms slap themselves on my forehead.

Sigh.

2007-09-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

After eight hoursof listlessly shuffling around, staring at nothing in particular, lying slouched in bed and watching t.v and sleeping, I decided something.
I decided Calculus was like a mildly eyebrow-furrowing crossword on one of those happy thursday evenings wuth a plate of cake and a sink-in couch at your grandparents' house.
And I nodded my head solemnly, trudged to my bed and observed my ceiling woodenly.

2007-09-19T05:02:00.000-07:00

This little pig is tired.
Of everything.

2007-07-16T05:11:00.000-07:00

I'm happy.
Grin.
Bounce.
Clap clap.
Bounce bounce bounce.

Feet to the sky.
Strewn hair.
Drained coffee mug.
Dreamy sighs.

2007-06-30T08:33:00.000-07:00

Sprawled on a ledge below a tree.
A patchwork quilt of dark leaves and dappled light.
Branches stooping low, shadows playing games.
Soft music in my ears.
And when it seemed right I wiggled my toes and sang out loud, into the darkness.
And walked with a drizzle back home.
Taking my time, hands deep in my pockets.

2007-06-03T07:32:00.000-07:00

I put a tiara on my speaker's um. Forehead.

And I realised she looked pretty.

My friends say I'm swinging to the other side.

And now they're going to be scratching their chins, looking politely thoughtful.

2007-05-19T07:45:00.000-07:00

Evergreen Miles by Kurt Halsey.

2007-05-15T09:44:00.000-07:00

My happy balloon which I've been bouncing around happily in just deflated.
Even the way it deflated was a picture of sadness.
Y'know?
It just retreated to a dark corner with it's head hung low and slowly emptied itself of all it's shiny, colourful, yummy, sunshiney, kaliedoscopic HappYness.
And then I got out and blinked. And trudged around in a daze, regarding everything dully.
Suddenly, everything was drained of colour.
It wasn't pretty.

Ode to a Deflated Happy-Balloon .

Take me on a chug-chug train
That rushes by lands of green
Again.
My moccasins on the floor,
A seat by the window.

You were my tigger; your top was made out of rubber, your bottom out of springs.
You took me to clouds, to tree-tops.

And there was music that set you free,
My hands stained with paint,
A wide assortment of grins and chuckles and snickers and delightedgleesmiles and guffaws and tinklinggiggles to choose from.

Everyday was a clad-in-happy-coloured-socks day.

2007-05-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

"I'll buy running shoes. We'll take up yoga or jogging. You know, we'll be organised. Pay our bills, floss our teeth. We won't set fire to the appartment anymore. I'll buy a goldfish and we'll be like normal people."

-Dominic West to Sandra Bullock in 28 Days.

What is being normal, anyway?

2007-05-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

Hey God(Dear and other such endearments are so last year.Poo),
I want to go back to being a little girl.
So I can wear frocks and shoes that squeak and light up with every step. And sit in a chair and moan querulously about my feet not touching the floor. And sit on Daddy's shoulder. And giggle about my hand being as big as Daddy's palm. And have people crouch down to talk to me. And wear those frilly bloomers and underpants with the meanest cartoons ever.
Because this whole being-semi-grown-up thing is a bit of a pain in the hind quarters. Y'know?
If you do that, I promise I'll give you my lucky underwear. And okay, my favourite pillow too.
We could negotiate, I guess. I've scribbled my address on the envelope with PinkPossumBebby's purple papermate pen.
Thanks, dude!

2007-05-04T05:33:00.000-07:00

And I thought I was the only one.
I'm beginning to get mildly addicted to xkcd. :D

2007-05-02T03:09:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I jump up purposefully, pull my hair into a tight, high ponytail and stack together a few reams of paper, making up my mind that for once, I would actually do something. The something being finishing all that assignment work we’ve been mercilessly dumped with.
Then I realize that something else is trying to catch a little more attention than the corner of my eye is giving it. This something being my un-made bed, innocently looking sinfully inviting.
And then before I know it, I’m amidst all my pillows, sighing happily and grinning at the ceiling.

I tell you, quite a few of my belongings seem to possess a life of their own.

Tell-Tale Signs.

2007-04-30T09:23:00.000-07:00

Something in the air.

You peep out of the window.

Trees holding their breath.

***

Hovering in air-

My senses in a tizzy

-The perfume of rain.

***

Sounding much louder

Than my tum's many grouses

The rumbling thunder.

***

Take Another Little(square) Piece of My Heart.

2007-04-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

One must not talk flippantly about cutting mangoes.
Cutting mangoes is an art that one can acquire over the years only with infinite patience and adeptness.
Knife in one hand, mango in the other, I was humming a happy tune that spoke of days in cornfields and neatly-cut manga, waves tickling my toes and soft pillows.
Still humming, I chipped away the green exterior.
And then I was holding a huge blob of yellow. One big gooey mess.
Unfazed, I continued humming and even attempted a ‘la di da’ and a ‘tra la la’.
And that’s when things always go wrong.
So I have thought it out and decided that next time, when I’m ineffably happy and tend to walk into walls and stub my little toe against ironing tables pretty often, I will not attempt a ‘la di da’ or a ‘tra la la’. Or a happy hum-tune. Or have one of those cartoon bubbles inside my head that pops up every now and then and reads “yay, I’m so happy.:D”.
I will, instead, just glow happily and smile at the world in general.
What went wrong was this:
The mango pieces weren’t perfectly square.
They were hexagonal and irregular shaped blobs with multiple little tails.
And of course, I was immensely proud of not having to deprive the blessed mango pieces of their individuality. I was so proud, I even beamed at them.
But they were also the tell-tale signs of my inability to cut mangoes into square pieces.
Which is also a good thing, because when everyone else stands up and proudly proclaims that they have successfully mastered the art of cutting mangoes into squares at the Talent Show, I can stand up and proudly proclaim otherwise.
Somehow, that did not fully quell my frustration of not being able to cut mangoes into square pieces.
And so here I am, griping about it.
*sigh*
I guess super-heroes can’t be good at everything.

Bristles and The Shiny Weapon of Choice.

2007-04-22T09:26:00.000-07:00

Super-heroes will be super-heroes.
They miss the rush of adrenaline.
The breathless-excitement coursing through their veins.
The feel of a cape swirling behind them.
The mirror winking at them in their super-hero jumpsuits.

It started with a spoon.
The normal, shiny kind that has an upside-down, hazy version of you grinning back.
I rolled it over in my hands. Traced it’s blunt contours. Smiled to myself.
There was a dearth of super-heroes.
There was a dearth of deep-baritone voices happily announcing that the day was saved.
It seemed every other day that a feline fur-ball querulously moaned from a tree-top.
And the enemy’s jumpsuits just got slicker. Not to mention their ultra-cool bang-bang gadgets.
I toyed with the idea of being The Spoon Assassin.
Combined with my wit (who said super-heroes were modest?) and the mind bogglingly neat ability of spoons to reflect things, I’d be basking in my super-hero glory all over again.

I could picture the headlines:
She Does it with Spoons.
The Mosquito Swatter: Armed and Fabulous.
The Spoon Assassin Saves the Day, Forking her Way Out With Spoons.

But as they said,
I was becoming old. Wheezing.
Sporting that odd grey hair.
And there were those pouches under my eyes.
And there was the flab.

I decided I could somehow coax Mr. Toothbrush into becoming The Spoon Assassin, being the absolute gentleman that he is.

And so, the saga continues…

I'm Not Sleepy and there is No Place I'm Going to.

2007-04-18T22:55:00.000-07:00

(Painted the picture with my pinky finger. Messed up his face a tad)

Barefoot.
Rolled up trousers.
Light-headed.
A tune ‘pon his lips.

She sat watching from behind a tree.
Green grass between her toes.
It was one of those days.
“A still-life watercolour.”
“Like something out of a Robert Frost poem.”
Gurgling water and rustling bamboos.
And him. In a billowy purple tee and a guitar in his hand.
And she sat there watching from behind a tree.
As hues of yellow and green spiraled down.
A smile ‘pon her lips.

“Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,

My senses have been stripped,

My hands can't feel to grip,

My toes too numb to step,

wait only for my boot heels

To be wanderin'.

I'm ready to go anywhere,

I'm ready for to fade

Into my own parade,

cast your dancing spell my way,

I promise to go under it.”

-Bob Dylan.

__________________________________________________________________

I’ve been living in a dream.
And it takes people to say things twice before I reply.
Pillows.hair blowing across my face.
The feel of wet tar under my feet.
My bed’s not made. Strewn papers. Unfinished books.

Happy Lazy Sundays.

2007-03-24T21:29:00.000-07:00

Distorted voices. Far away music. You open an eyelid ; barely register anything. You drift away again.
Sunday mornings you think happily a little later, still in bed. Eyes still closed, you smile at the dancing colours in the dark.
Chirping symphony. The light filtering through.
Reach over for the book.
Shuffle unsteadily to the radio before dad. Turn on the 80's music.
Fool in the rain. Led Zeppelin. Disjointed thoughts.
Drag yourself laboriously to the kitchen. Hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.
The Sunday morning paper. The Sunday morning breakfast.
Lazy. Happy. Bliss.