The joy of waking up late.

Once in a blue moon I get to enjoy the joy of waking up late. By late I mean post 9 or 10 am. I’m usually up by 5:30 to 6 AM or woken up before 7 AM. You would wonder what the joy of waking up late and being in a sleep haze or distorted surroundings are.

Well for starters, nothing wakes you up. Not the alarm, not a single person and surely not the sunlight if you sleep in a dark room or just have thick curtains like me. (NOPE. I just had once converted my window into a bookshelf because my cupboards were full.)

Having a lazy beginning is not usually idea but, this lazy day lets me read novel for hours together without leaving the comfortable space that I made since several hours. The bed is warm, and the fan blows cool air to stop me from sweating. Add on my reading glasses and I’m good to go for a few hours until brunch/lunch.

Third reason being a late breakfast or a brunch. There is piping hot and yummy food ready if some one preps it up.

Post lunch the huge titanium wall of realisation hits me. Damn! Half of the day is over and I have a quite a few things to do. The pressure of the hour stops me from procrastinating on the internet and get to work. Whats good about this you ask? I get my job done and make sure that it does not pile up in my do-it-ASAP pile. What’s not to love about work that is completed?

The splurge of energy paired without a coffee can let me work through out the day for a few hours post midnight or even more without feeling drowsy. But here comes the cons after the oh so exhaustive list of the pros. What is this only con?

NEXT DAY!

Because right at 11 I realise tomorrow is a working day and the fact that I have to show up to classes in order to get the attendance and learn information. I could convert this to a pro stating and concluding that this will even make sure I sleep om time to wake up before 6 AM the next day. Just because this last one is a pseudo-pro. This solely depends on the ability of my realisation to make sure it flashes in my brain and makes sure I realise it.

Signing off,

AB.

A walk to remember.

No, this is not a review of the book by the same name that Nicholas Sparks wrote. What would be a walk to remember is my question. Like in the book ( If you’ve read it because, I haven’t watched the movies ), would it be one where Jamie Sullivan walks with her father down the aisle while suffering from cancer? Though that isn’t everyone’s story, what would be a walk to remember for all the mundane people around? 

For a high schooler it could be the walk after the last exam in senior year. It could be the walk home from work for a person just over 60 and retiring.  It could be the walk into somewhere peaceful after deployment for soldier. It might be the last class for a teacher or surgery for a doctor. It could be the last stroll with you dog. Or a walk to the walk with your loving grandparents who buy you candies or icecreams by the end of the walk. For a mother, it could be her child’s first few wobbling steps. For she, puts her child’s needs in front of her own.

It might be the first walk after amputation or a walk towards better lives. It could be the walk towards the grave of a loved one. Or a walk under rain where your tears could be masked. One might happen to remember all the walks in their lifetime and yet not have a favourite or memorable one.

But the one way walk towards infinity would be a walk to remember but, unfortunately it’s one walk we don’t get to remember.  Which gets me thinking how a walk to remember holds the possiblity of being the one you might not remember. Or that one walk you long to remember but has escaped your memory. The one you wish to hold on to forever but it fades away.

P.S. The picture is that of  cenotaphs at Bada Bagh in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan IN. They belong to the royal family.  Captured by yours truly back in 2012 or 13.

The barter at the devil’s hour

221B Grimmauld Palace,

Baker’s Stree,Borough of Isolation

Republic of Solitude – 007

Dear Now-a-fragment-of-my-imagination,

I’m sorry for all the mistakes and sins I’ve ever committed. I’m truly sorry and I promise that I shall learn from them and never commit such a sin. We all deserve second chances don’t we? And NO! Second chances do not mean that you scan me from top to toe with those scrutinising eyes of yours and search my nooks of my soul and my room. Yes, I am well aware that what I did wasn’t right. But that does not mean you punish my soul for it. My soul tried to make sure that I don’t lie to you. I convinced my teeth to bite my tongue and my hands to pinch my ears and I thought of lying to you. No this was not a spur of the momentire lie and yes, I was going to confess. Not immediately but soon. All I wished for is some more time. For,  I am not one of those several people who try to take a short cut just to escape the peril for a short time and then just commit to take several short cuts and get stuck in a world full of rat traps. I am one of those who needs a little time in the Republic of Solitude to come up with a way to overcome the peril. Oh! You wouldn’t understand it. My soul would cease to exist if at all I decided not to confess that I did lie.

I sometimes wonder if you ever lied! But, I’m well aware of them. Yet, I choose to keep quite because,  I believe you have you reasons. No one was ever made perfect.  Not even God’s favourite Faust. Like good ol’ Faust, I also seek and wish for things. But, unlike him I shalt not sell my soul to the devil and end up serving in the lava filled he’ll as he did. For, I would burn from the boiling lava my soul throws my way if I ever sold it.But, I shall barter it with the devi at the devil’s hour as I write the play by play for you to see I’m a better version of a person than I seem to be at the moment in front of your scrutinising eyes. I’m bartering my abilities to commit sins, procrastinate and give into certain unhealthy guilty pleasures in order to obtain my goals and dreams. And unlike Faust, both my gods and my devils stand by me. He wishes me well and locls hia newly aquired possessions deep down in his dungeons for those, are his rightful pleasures or so he says. Also, I’m postivery that he doesn’t wish to have a  borderline OCD slave working in his lava pool and complaining how molten and solidified lava shul not mix.

I know that my minutes here in the Republic of Solitude are numbered. As I’m about to leave the devil calls my name. He makes anot her promise that, If at all I don’t look towards my older habits, he shall talk to his friend called death and provide me with the cloak of invisibility. I step back into out world where your eyes shall surely scan me again hearing the wishes of both my gods and my devils. I thank them for one last time. I shall hide the key but, never use it. It’s one of the promises that I wouldn’t dare to break.

Yours sincerely, 

Hope and determination.

The art of cutting queues.

​Old or young, small or gigantic, detailed or abstract, melodious or monotonous, art in art in all forms can be appreciated and admired. But,  there’s one specific kind that I couldn’t even fathom admiring. Not no wand surely not in my wildest dreams. Instead I’d rather take pride in appreciate the sound of nails or chalk screeching. I’m sure my over enthusiastic and out of tune singing skills or a child’s scribes are far more marvellous.

What is this art that I’ve acquired so much hate for ? Oh for goodness sake, it’s the art of cutting queues or lines. This happens almost everywhere. In line at the banks, grocery stores, clothing stores and railway stations. They claim to have come before you even if you’re the first one. They don’t budge and are ready for a verbal fight. The try to potray a woman wrong if at she’s the one pointing out an idiot who skipped the queue.
I wonder if it’s stupidity , ignorance or just plain disrespect for the rules. Is there some felecitation for these deligated and highly qualified rule breakers ? Or is it self satisfaction obtained after breaking rules.  Yes, I’ll always wonder how it feels to skip one but, I don’t think I could ever muster up the courage to do so. Call me scared or whatever else you can come up with. The only way I can defy those words would be with my respect for rules and regulations.
Until next time!

Never around .

Each night, she’d dream everyone repeatedly asking her ” Why do you repeat the lines be there or be square?” 

Every day she’d wake up replying “Because , you’re never a-round”.

Hello dearest lovely reader of mine! I’m sorry. Yes sorry.

Sorry that you had to endure this pun.

Beacuse, someone like me can have a rather pathetic and pun-tastic pun.

Crazy! Not me, but them.

Me and my mother usually go by train to Mysore. Mainly because it’s more airy and that it doesn’t make my mom feel nauseous. Going back to the city we lived 6 years ago makes me a little sad because I don’t get to visit as much as I’d like to.
Traveling by train sure does result in several new experiences. Food vendors, daily wage workers, the occasional travelers, tourists, students to people going home after work, you’ll see them all.
People pushing and walking in and out with no place to stand or sit. It’s quite common to find the walking area between bogies and seats filled with people sitting.
Once every few minutes, food vendors selling tea, coffee, charmuri and maddur vade ( a type of vada/fried delicacy ) fill the confined space of the bogie with respective smells.
The evening trains, may it be a slow passenger or a super fast express they are jam-packed with people, especially on Fridays and the weekends. Today was one such friday. Amidst the packed train bogie there are a few good people. Here I was standing with my backpack hoping escaping  from the pushing and hoping fewer shoes stamp mine and a kind soul sports me. This person gets up and offers me his seat. People come and go as the stations change ( Similar to the concept of life) and the bogie becomes much more easy as everyone now has a seat to sit on. The train keeps moving on tracks above the ground and bridges over a river as the destination nears. Few snacks later with a little of Billy Joel, Simple plan, Abba and Green day blaring from my earphones, I’m forced to drop them as the man sitting in front of my seat questions me about what I want to take up in college upon learning that I completed 12th standard. Just about every other person! The train nears further closer to my destination as the man gets down the train.
The scene outside my window consists of silhouette of various types of trees paired with occasional specks of street lights and  passing trains which block my view and get me to block my ears.
The city of Mysore appears through my window frame and this gets me to pack my earphones and phone inside. Soon I find a man and a woman staring at me as if I were a lunatic. I wonder which one of my actions were peculiar. My mother smiles and me and I smile back when I realise that they stared at me because I was retrieving the empty packets of lays and toffee from the back of my jean pocket and stuffing it in the bag compartment.

Crazy indeed ! Oh not me, but them.

The Bed Time Story

Yes, I was the kind of kid who prefered to sleep only after listening to an intersesting short story followed by a heated discussion about the after math. My father must have had a hard time coming up with new “interesting” stories. He often narrated stories about beasts and men living in harmony, and of course there was a cunning fox or a monkey who tricked the host animal and accumilated all the produce from the farm or kitchen garden. Those were not the stories which amused me the most, the ones which depicted far of lands and myriad adventures were what amused me.

There’s this one story about a place which was below the sea level. It was one story i never got bored of, and listening to it was always interesting. He told me repeatedly to not confuse with Venice in Italy.At that time, the only thing I knew about Neatherland, apart from it’s name and capital’s name was the image of their flag. This is how the story went.

P.S. The seccond part is very illogical.

It was a place far far away from where we were, with people who loved to cycle. Beautiful and dreamy landscapes, endless resources But, a huge problem. The land was below the sea.  Apparently the crisis of this place seemed to be repeated floodings and water clogged cities. Townsfolk had to abandon their motors and cycles and get used to boating around town. Finally, a few poeple with great inteliggence joined to gether and built sea walls to prevent the water from coming into the city. Life moved on a litttle better for a few years when all of a sudden one of the sea walls had a little breach. It was a tiny hole. The town council decided to make a little boy poke his finger and stop it until daylight during the cold december night .                                                                                                  ( Me : That’s inhuman. How could they do that?? It must be very cold!

Dad: Just wait, Let me complete. I promise you it was worth it. )              

The boy loves his country and decided to immerse himself in this service. He stays through the night withough falling asleep and unfrazed by the cold. He notices that the hold had gotten larger with time. Then comes a time where his tiny hands no longer covers the hole and with ever wave there came extra water into the town. He decided to make little water paths to avoid the water being stagnant at a place. The night changes to day and brings the towns folk to find the little system of canals leading the water away. The scholar who observes it appreciates the thoughtfulness of the little boy and awards him generously after anouncing that the construction of the tunnels shall begin in an hour.

That’s exactly where the story ended since it was high time and my dad would be flodded with a wave of questions.