Hunger.

It wasn’t as though they didn’t Give her enough. She was convinced she didn’t deserve what they Gave of their own accord. So everyday she invented polite ways of refusing anything they Gave. She was always polite.

There are people who would Take if asked to just one more time.

There are people who’d never Take the first time they’re offered.

Never.

She basked in the joy their mere act of Offering gave her. It was enough. Because she knew she didn’t deserve anything more. Sometimes she Wanted. A little. Just to know what would happen if she Took. But she never asked. Because that would be out of line. She was fine with what she didn’t Take. It was enough. Just the knowledge that they’d Offered. And the times she Wanted, she liked that she could deny fulfillment of that impulse.

Secretly she lived in perpetual unacknowledged hunger.

But that’s alright. The denial makes her happy.

Because if she took…
if she took, it’d be too much of a debt.

Because she knew she didn’t deserve it.

Afternoon.

Crycrycry.

You don’t really expect comfort.

So you go about doing the usual. Only you’ve to wipe them off once in a while. You don’t give it any attention.

And so when that doesn’t seem to be doing anything you decide to confront and vent.

Its like laughing a lot. You smile and smile and smile. And you’re so happy all the time you think you could fill everything with that happiness.

And then the world becomes a dream. And you drift and drift and drift until you don’t recognise yourself anymore.

But then everything is meaningless already so that doesn’t bother. Because nothing will touch.

Nothing will touch.

So you should be happy. And so crycrycry. Its all woe and joy.

One day it’ll all end, you tell yourself. And so you distract, confront, give in, feel guilt, repress, and smile. Smile a lot. Everything is alright if you smile a lot.

Gas.

Depthless I am.

So airy I could lodge myself in a rodent’s alveoli and it wouldn’t know.

Tarbaked air, making mirages of smooth strips of baking metallic highways (seen from inside a supercold, tinted glassed car, of course).

I was dreaming this morning. I was looking at my snapfrozen body/corpse ( I wasn’t sure if I was dead, because if I was, I couldn’t have been observing the procedure. I become a pair of thinking eyeballs separate from the rest of my body very frequently in my dreams.) and it was being sliced into these superthin crosssections, neatly mounted onto transparent slides and if you arranged them right, you’d have the whole body as if it were whole, almost on the verge of animation, and if you didn’t, well…that led to interesting things.

There was this huge steel block, (like a ceremonial butcher’s block, come to think of it) and they arranged me there and then put all the pieces away into different steel refrigerator sections lining the room floor to ceiling.

Then this really pretty button nosed Caucasian child came and took all the pieces out and started playing with the plates, trying to assemble me. I was afraid she’d cut herself on the sharp edges. (The I that was the eyeballs, that is.) The me in the slices could feel her warm adipose fingers. Too warm. The slices unfroze.

And she broke some.

The floor was white tiled.

I think she liked breaking. So she clambered up on the smooth steel block and pushed everything off its surface. But everything had unfrozen. And her palms and knees were red. But she hadn’t cut herself.

There was a lot of broken slices of me on the white tiled floor, slid out of the mount. It all made such a pretty pattern. Red and white. Oddly pristine. And the slices were liquefying into degrees of redness. Creeping along the grooves in the tiles. It was very pretty looked at from the top. (which was where the eyeballs hovered for a while)

The child was blonde and unfreckled. She slid off the smooth steel block and drew pictures on the white tiles. I thought she’d draw my face. I was waiting for her to draw my face.

And then, mercifully, the cellphone started vibrating and I woke up and had this most peculiar gooseflesh inducing sensation of dissolving.

Liquefying.

Evaporating.

Like each atom that comprised me didn’t want to be bound to the other atoms. Like the very skin that hedged them in were dissolving. Like they’d like to do their own thing.

It hurt.

Cave in.

Ami bhishon bheetu.

Its almost like a constant physiological ache, and not something the mind might have manufactured.

Stormling

points to a lot of porn.

Cackle cackle.

Joys

Very good scores.
Reading material.
Good scores.
Reading material that helps in acquiring the previous.
The prospect of getting hands on Good Reading Material.
Conversation.
Flattery.
Meandering walks alone.
Chocolate at the end of meandering walks alone.
Flamewatching.
Back rubs.
Stretching.
Flamewatching that does not result in ass-spanking by tiny penguins.
Unexpected rendezvouses.
Unexpected rendezvouses that result in catharsis for one of the parties.

Hmm.

Check, check, check…….

11.

Not bad.

🙂

Auguries of Innocence*

….A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

She says I’m a compulsive liar. He says I think something, say something else and do another thing bearing not even the remotest particle of continuity with the previous two. There is no orchestration. I used to think I didn’t lie. I lie a lot, a scary lot, because there’s a Sorting that takes place before actions are processed into what is and should be, where they’re discounted as lies outright.

It is right it should be so:
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine…..

I wish I didn’t appear as contradictory as I do. The inconsistency irks. Staring straight ahead in quietude appeals then. To resolve. To mask. To lay bare, perhaps.

…The questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out….

To lay bare, because nobody looks. Because it isn’t a dialogue but two separate monologues.

….He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out.

Hysterical blindness. Everything is charm and persuasion. And smiles. And Staring Straight Ahead. Never forget the Staring Straight Ahead. There are massive disconnects. And language becomes a barrier. Words arranged cleverly. Killingly clever.

To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you….

...Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night…

I am a child of sweet delight. This I’ve always Known. Always.

They said I didn’t live in the Real World much. Childhood affords one that luxury.

And now….

Now I cannot arrange words cleverly. So that their intent is known.

Now incoherence stabs. Gnaws.

Now I’d like to reach out and touch, if I could.

But everything is receding, dopplering away.

*Written by William Blake. Should you like to read the poem in full, click the post title.

So Stealthily Strikes the Malady.

There was a woman in Pantaloons day before yesterday. All peaches and cream, and straight hair too. There were too many people milling about, and too many people queued in front of the fitting rooms. She seemed oblivious to all of it, though. She was singing to the kid she held. Pretty kid. Pink tee and tiny denim skirt. A little on the thin side, would’ve been angelic otherwise. Droopy eyes. I could tell it didn’t hear the din as well, only the singing. It was all limp, little head resting on the woman’s shoulder. It was about to drop off to sleep soon, I could tell, being cradled and swayed from side to side like that. I stared so much I wondered if she would notice. She was too busy singing to her kid. The kid, I mean. Could’ve been somebody else’s.

Stared until my vision blurred.

That happens pretty often. This filling up of the eyes. In public too. But a bunch of absolute strangers wouldn’t notice. And they’d just stare if they did and wouldn’t bother you. I suppose its rather humiliating and that’s why one isn’t supposed to produce them inconvenient tears. Log kya sochenge syndrome. Kya sochenge? They’re too wrapped up in themselves. They won’t notice.

I used to be terrified of crying. The parents hated it. In the beginning I thought if I cried they’d think I was displaying remorse or that whatever they were saying was producing an effect and so they’d stem the barrage. Quite a myth. The hammering stops only when they tire of it. Nothing I do would make it stop. It used to be a dialogue when I was slightly older. But that only created more bad blood and aloofness. So I shut up. Shutting up is a very good thing, sometimes. But then I shut up elsewhere too. Everywhere, in fact.

If I had warning I’d instruct my eyes to do something else, even around strangers, or when alone, for practice, because it really is a very undesirable thing to occur when in the company of strangers-to-a-degree-lesser-than-absolute.

Erased

DiVveA: hie huny

DiVveA Agrawal is online.

Diviani: hey

hows you?

DiVveA: m gudd

Sent at 21:16 on Sunday

Diviani: aur bol

DiVveA: tu bata

havin fun at colg

Diviani: somewhat

you?

DiVveA: yup

Sent at 21:21 on Sunday

DiVveA: u kno

Diviani: what?

DiVveA: u dun share things wid me

u dun msg

Diviani: such as?

DiVveA: u dun col

nuthin

Diviani: there is nothing to share

DiVveA: as if..

m no longr a part of ur system

Diviani: my life is a blank word document

DiVveA: shut up

thn tell me whu erased ol d text

Who indeed? There is nothing to say. Nothing to share. What do I talk about? The halcyon glow of childhood? The Now that is peopled with entities you do not know?

I’m trying out the livinginthemoment thing.I was sitting in CCD opposite Rijula and she says “Woman, you’re tripping,”she says, “Even just picking up this ashtray would make you happy,”she says.

I embark on a rambling exploration of what might be and almost immediately I’m told to not think too much.

At this point I’d weed out anything that’d cause me unjoy. Or wasn’t fulfilling. Or didn’t seem like a potential general feelgood generator. You don’t make me happy. I don’t know if I do. Therefore there isn’t really any point of inflicting one’s company on the other.

There is a lot to tell, love. The sheer volume of it keeps me from venturing into it. Don’t worry. When the implosion occurs, you’ll know. And you’ll understand, miraculously, without any accompanying subtext. Without any history. I cannot tell you until I’m so frustrated its worse than XI-XII.

Things are atingle.

Since this is going to be a journal, I’ll go the whitehouseintern expose (ex-po-zay, that one, I’m tech-challenged and can not be bothered with finding out how to get the accent here) way with candid, I’ve decided.

If only I were a whitehouseintern type, bedhopping away to the blookers. Sigh.

I write terribly convoluted things in the ink and paper twin of this page.

For instance, on 9th July 2006 I wrote : In resonance, I find imperturbable happiness, and I love everybody and everything- the Nikos Kazantzakis Buddhist Compassion. Everything reaches its destination, happy and content.

I mean, ooooooof.

And on 25th July, at 2:45 am, this: {while on the phone with One,spontaneously selfspewed doodlerhyme(?). Or something. I think the latter. (I sincerely wish for the Sanskritisation of The Queen’s Tongue when it comes to compound words.)}

We shall sit sometime, then
In the sea-mist filled hour, when
We first met; we shall sit again
By the Blue Mushroom underneath the light rain.

Yes, tomorrow, or the day after, say
By the Blue Mushroom beside the bay
Perhaps someone would play the shamisen
While I, with Reason, my phantom heart garrison.

I, gaoled in gaiety, will not tell you
Tales of sadness, though they be true.
We shall sit in silence then,
While deft fingers pluck at the shamisen.

No. This won’t do. I seriously need to acquire Lifereporting skills. Especially now that I know the parents will not be snooping.

I did a lot of things today I might’ve wanted to blog about when I started typing. But I’ll let that pass because the sum of everything thats been happening over the recent past is the following sentence:

I am being made very Happy.