Correction. We are Thanda Billis

Is it just me, or can you also hear background music?

(Bunty aur Babli, Bunty aur Babli...)

Namashkar. Kahiye kya sunenge aap?

Yeh rahaa hamaara pratham raashtrabhaasha lekhan.
Hum hain sheetal billa aur sheetal billi.
Rok sako toh rok lo.

it's difficult to respond to sounds (not even lyrics)
and odes to other (err..) women (?)

silence takes two.

Let's forget this place exists.
One of us already has.

I love Rakhi Sawant.

Jing-chak, jigijigi chak

I am a Disco Dancer
tatta tataa
I am a Disco Dancer.

Jeemy Jeemy Jeemy
Aajaa aajaa aajaa.
Jeemy Jeemy Jeemy
Aajaa aajaa aajaa.

Ta thaiyya ta thaiyaa Ho...
Ta thaiyya ta thaiyya HoOoO....
Tum turururururu
tum turururururu
tum turu tum turu tum turu.

Wakaaw!

some kind of silence, it is.
results from a lack of time, or space, for me.

but when both come my way, i don't know what to do with them.

it's what they call an overdrive.
and a burnout.

and most often, i don't have the patience to explain this.

101

Among other things, you are,
incommunicado.
Whatever is up with that.

100

no wondering.

we're 100 bits old =)
much love.

Somehow.
One wonders how.

Pin drop silence.

You should thank your stars.
Jai Pediatrics.

Take it easy.

(Seems like the only thing anybody can manage to tell you)

What Nonsense.

it's not fair.
one bad rhyme-pattern, hurriedly composed poem cannot outdo all of my letters and all.
no, not fair.

and, you know what?
Somebody wuvs me sooooooo much.

(as much as Somebody hates it-)
=)

So, okay

I am given to being
stupid and saying
silly fings, but meaning
not a thing.

I say them with no spite
i get nothing right
and you like me despite
when you should actually slap me tight.

I suck at poetry
I just can't rhyme
But now it sets me free
for twas my fault this time.

I just wrote in
to say somethin',
S it starts with
Y it ends with.

'Sexy' you might think,
but that's not it;
I am not one to hoodwink,
(Go call me a twit)

Okay,
think of this as a bouquet,
with a note popping out which
just says, 'Sorry ya, bitch'.

oh bother.
who said this is about writing skills?!

gee.
some people.

Of course i have not forgotten this place.
I visit it quite often myself.
But do not write, that is all.
That is attributed to poor, and what the hell, non-existent writing skills.
Also, i be in final year of emmbeebeeyess. Four syllable academic hurdles are always little pain in posterior. Remember essessellsee?
While i enjoy abusing that excuse, what remains the truth is the aforementioned secret.

let's forget this place exists.


it'll be easy. one of us already has.

so, i blow the dust that has gathered here.
and i'll sit, and wait.

in the meantime, i will watch the world,
from my tiny place on a vacant parkbench,
by a busy, busy road,
infested with busy people,
touching two ends of a busy world.

and i wait,
wait.

for a warm shoulder
to throw itself by my side,
and say,
whatever happened to our soliloquy?

see?

i do all the posting here. all the better ones. actually, ALL of them.

*giggles*

see, a better joke this time.

Aww.
Paapa.

You are graduating?
You will wear saree?
You will wear makeup?
You will?

You will?

See, i am only curious,
where am i making fun?

why do i even bother.
really.

i should quietly take my box,
put away all my little things,
and go.

and just quietly listen to all the (bad) jokes.

go on. get cracking.

Strip baby.
Strip.

i'm graduating today.

Early morning radio.
Bad kannada.
Badder(sic) english.
Bladder troubles.
And,
Himesh Reshammiya.
With,
Shakalaka lakalaka kakkakakka boom boom.

That one does.
So pisses me off.

trivializing things.
oh yes. that pisses me off.

faar you?

So tell me

What is the one thing that pisses you off?

oh. like that!

okay.

On why you can't be angry with me

Because i am just too good ya.
Just too good.

i wish i could be angry with you,
long enough.

pah.
oestrogen is too forgiving.

because i'm so super cool yo.

heehee.

Something to reply to you say.
Lets see.

Why did you get your nose pierced?

the thrush has nothing to reply to.
that's why.

so, thrush will take it as a hint to shut up.

The weltschmerz going mute is understandable. You know, depression and shite. (The Iraq war was unjust)
What requires brow-raising and hairtearing-thinking is the Thrush shutting up.
Whyever.

Thoo!
Plagiarism andre Shakespeare ey sikkdna?

Sonnet

Shall i compare thee to a Summer's day?
Though art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

nonsense.
you wanted spotlights on soliloquies.

but it's okay.
you do it better.
go on?

*nods*

but i thought we were on soliloquies.

So,
go ahead,
give one.

it takes two

to tango.
to clap.
to talk.

to tinyyellownote.

This place has been

uncharacteristically
woefully
ununderstandably
andotherbigwordably

quiet.

hurting?
what the?

(I had been lost all this while. Lost, but hurting)

*raises left eyebrow*

*yawns*
*goes back to sleep*

Out of the closet.

Here!
And finally!
Out!
Of the closet!
In the open!
Hanging!
Still!
Bleeding!?
Auburn hair!
Very fair!
Only loincloth!
Son of God!
Emancipated!

Psst..

You are the insipid in beginnings,
the hiding in my muse,
the twirling, thinking index finger,
the cliches I abuse.

You are the simple lyric,
that challenges my rhyme,
the soaring, surging raaga,
four beats at a time.

You are braille in a reign of black,
the reluctance in refuse,
the security of darkness,
the intent I confuse.

You are the personal disbelief
in your own silly excuse,
the little devil worshipped
deep, deep, in a ruse.

You are stage that stands waiting,
the audience I can't amuse,
the silence that listens patiently,
the love-poem gone obtuse.

*yawn*

my eyelids are working on spring action.
working them up causes auto-shut.

where's the guffaw,

really?

no, there's a line.
fine one. but it's there.

can't quite tell you what crossing it is.
something instinctive, i guess.

and
no, de facto needn't become de jure.

figurehead-leaders are classic examples.

What is de facto, will eventually become de jure no?
Meaning, if that routine already exists, what stops anyone from giving it another name as long as the dynamics of the situation remain the same.

nonsense, that's not incidental.

(lack of) forthcomingness. remember?

Simply.

Ehsaan tera hoga mujh par
Dil chaahta hain jo kehne do
Mujhe tumse mohabbat ho gayee hain
Mujhe palkon ki chaaon mein rehne do

- Junglee.

(Thats the song i am listening to, incidentally.)
(And yes, about the universe sized egos)

Lauuw koshunnings

i am thinkings this lauuwship koshun answer be this:

loving someone is probably accepting them becoming a habit. a good one.
part of routine,

and people start to identify you by your good habits.

but i'm guessing we're too proud for that.

Deductions

what i deduced from your laauly laang note:

one kind of yellowness has not happened.
(afaik, it's happening now.)
boredness has happened.
bleeding nose has been left behind somewhere.
and you are traversing up the wrong nostril,
dreaming of noserings.

you can hate, of course.
Am Sh, and her pretentious ilk,
haunting jazzthemed haunts,
particularly when she is/was pissed with you.

you can hate anything you like.
honestly. because you already hate many things.

it's a strong word that you've abused,
to fit convenience.

nice convenience,
it defines what you finally love.

don't hate. you have a lot to lose, then.

be at peace with most things. it's so much easier,
no?

Hate

I hate Cul-ah.
I hate my exams.
I hate the fact that this blog is not as populated as it should be.
(the last post being on the 19th of January)
(Today is 27th of January.)
I hate the fact that i watched a reality tv show with bated breath.
I hate that the one i liked most lost.
I hate that i watch too much tv.
I hate that i am incapable of putting even basic thought before writing.
I hate the song thats playing now.
I hate the cooker whistle thats going off now, blaring out like it had an eartshatteringly important message to deliver.
I hate Dhingra, Khurana and Park.
I hate having to study.
I hate that my Levi's is torn.
I hate that i have not read as much Camus as i should.
I hate pimples.
I hate corporate whores.
I hate people having to move to Hyderabad without reason.
I hate Hyderabad.
I hate blogosphere or any such neologisms that sound crap.
I hate that the scribble pads at home are not yellow.
I hate Coldplay.
I hate my grinch fringe.
I hate that my mother hates it more.
I hate that i am broke.
I hate that i am always broke.
I hate the dust that settles between keys on the keyboard.
I hate it when mom sees it and screams.
I hate forwards.
I hate forwards more when they are in sms lingo.
I hate forwards most when they are in sms lingo and are sappy hindi ones.
I hate zindagi, mohabbat, mulaqat.
I hate that not many have read Screwtape Letters.
I hate that Armstrong still croons Its a wonderful world.
I hate people who are not online when i am.
I hate Am Sh.
I hate that sometimes two of my consecutive lines are very dependent on each other.
I hate posts that are incoherent.
I hate sneers and jeers.
I hate the word hate.

I hate.

my birthday wish?

i wish you could,
just for a moment,

borrow my eyes

to see just how beautiful you are.

Hideous

(Landscape review - CPU hum, rickety fan, squeaky springchair. Interjecting this machin-ated symphony are sharp expirations(if you please) every 8 seconds)

So.

Baby, some people make art out of nothing.
But, there are some things that fall way beyond known paradigms of art.
Even the best artists couldn't salvage such situations.
(Battlefield Earth had a reason to be the disaster that it was. As did Hindenberg)

You are Basil Hallward.
But i am no Dorian Gray.(the wider context of the sentence is provender for much debate, but thats for another post)

In Agreement.

=)

Tap on your window,
and knock on my door,
I
wanna make you feel beautiful.

- Maroon 5, She Will Be Loved.


Sigh.

Muted

It's 4:30.
The deadest hour of the night.
The dogs stop howling.
The mosquitoes seem stunned, even.
Stunned enough to let one soak in the beauty that is 4thereabouts.

At 4:30, all i am faced with and faced by is the low hum of the computer.
Somehow, that seems muted too.
As the world sleeps its sleepiest sleep, a trickle of customised sunshine, or is it moonshine, falls on my eyes; making me close my eyes and bask in its warmth.

The most i manage to do is nod my head, and utter Wahs from the corner of my mouth.
And feel warm all over again.
Is it daybreak,
or,
is it Kishori making day break with Lalit?

I care not, for the tanpura fills my head.
Leaving me hoping for a better day.

Observation

i'm making most of the posts here! =(

thoo, go ya.

Ulcerated Naayi, *you*.

*giggle fit*

fuck off,
before i start out on how much laau is there in me black heart.

Hmph.

Then, Chernobyl did take a toll on you.
My sympathies.

Bleddy developed world with its indiscriminate use of nuclear technology.
Che only ya.

Ref: Hiroshima

and you call me predictable?
funny.



back hurts,
and this place is driving me mad.

Predictability.

Plagiarism too, by the way.
Multiportal, no less.

Continued Shhism

London

Okay, went.

Slightish yellow.

Whaaat?

You asked for it.

Oh, Oh, And,

lauw x3

(see, you smiled.)

Oh. Okay.

That was a motion (pun) to get more purgings.

Well,
giving you a hug is most useless.

So I'll just quietly listen.




(There's no policy that it has to be alternate yellows. It's doing so when you feel like it.
Then again, In the case of *you*, you just go on and not reply. And go beserk if I don't.
Means, you are beyond repair. And, that I'm not even going to try.)

Guilt

Okay, dearest Darkling Thrush,

I have been a little too unprofessional, in terms of sticking to an unspoken protocol of alternate Yell(ow)s.
But, considerate arent you? I ripped the insides of an already empty cranium to come up things Imagination would be proud of. If only, that extended to writing non-medical too. Thats in the realm of sighness and bitter truths. Lets not even go there.

Its 4. I rant. I ramble. Rat-tle. And maunder.
Ptosis blurs what i write. Excellent excuse for coming up with the kind of crap, sadly, only i am capable of.

So,
lets breathe,
do a system reboot.
Good we do back up
(read, i read all your messages on the phone since the past month).

How have you been?
Now, you asked me that first.
So,
i have not been that good, horrendous exams notwithstanding.
i have not been that good, because...
narcolepsy has set in.
paranoia has happened off.
rani pink in all her glory has been a bitch, (with 'ulcerating teats, psoriatic skin, upturned-pudgy nose, wobbly knees and an i-define-loser attitude'.)
(Glory reminds me of a Dynam teacher in school, stout, fat and dark, who would struggle in heels and, like coincidence would have it, wore pinkest-of-pink lipstick)
(Used to hate her)
(there, she plagues even now; distracting and giving rise to unwanted shudders down an already ill spine)

Suffice to say, i have not been good.
And you know why.
As if innate pissedoffness were not enough, i had to augment it with reading a few blogs. Something i had consciously avoided.

Like on self-destruct mode, i did.
I did.
And i regretted.
Specially when there were flighty statements made about executions and Sammy foreign policy.(Sammy's dreamland saaku, makha.)
And then i read mine own.
Crescendo happened.
Full on, with sweeping violin choir going hysterical. The cellist's hand is a blur.

So, my own form of silly catharsis i desired.
Hence i purge.
Here.
(If you say, the toilet was a better option, i will actually laugh real hard)

.
.
.

And now, i have to come up with why i called this piece(of whatever) Guilt.
Lets see.
Hmmm.
Ho-hum.
Hmmmmm.
Hmmmmmmmm-er.
HA!
I am guilty of being stupid.
(Oh no, then i have to carry a tape player that says 'i am sorry' 24/7)
So,
what else
I am guilty, of killing your time.
Of successfully muddling your worked up brains.
Of bringing disrepute to yellowness.

Ayyo,
not no more.

Ta ta, moo moo.

Yours,
Ihaveofficiallylostitanddontwannaregainitwhatsoeverthankyou.

NYGreets to Rodent

Just,
peeked in to say hi.

How are you?