Reclaiming my voice

I’m curled up on my favorite spot on the sofa. Legs up on the ottoman, laptop balanced on my knees. As I look through my old posts, at some saved drafts for blog post ideas, I realize I’ve let fear paralyze me. Fear of being not good enough, of my voice not being powerful enough. Fear of what people will think if I post this or that. Fear of being inadequate to the expectations I set for myself. So. Much. FEAR.

I remember when blogging used to be fun! A time when I didn’t really care about what anyone thought about me. When I didn’t imagine that I would be judged by that nameless, faceless, formless someone out in cyberspace for my thoughts and ideas and beliefs.

While I have never been trolled (thank the Internet Gods!), just reading about the trolls and their vicious bile made me run away and hide. Even though I very rarely write on troll-worthy subjects – and even when I do, I am saved from trolls – I still let them bully me into being quiet.

Well, I don’t really want to be quiet any more. I want to express. To write about the things that move me. About my many and constantly changing interests. I may not become consistent overnight, and I won’t always come up with a masterpiece, and that’s alright. I just want to let the words flow again. Send my thoughts out to cyberspace, knowing they will reach the people who they are meant to reach. To write for the sheer joy of expressing an idea, a thought, a brief moment in time. To. Just. Write.

And trust that everything will be OK.

I wish I could

Wish upon a starI wish  I could live in a cottage by the lake,
read, dream, garden, potter around.

I wish I could spend my time
painting, photographing, writing, cooking.

I wish I was surrounded by friends and loved ones,
talking, sharing, communing.

I wish life was simpler,
relaxed, carefree, joyful, abundant.

I wish…

What do you wish for?

Inspired by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop

Bringing up the Teriyaki Boys

Their cries filled the car. Going from pitiful sobs, begging for mercy, to whimpering and then urgent cries of protest. When that didn’t improve their lot, they cried in indignation and then in full blown anger. “You think we are helpless?” those screams seemed to say. “We’ll show you! We have some tricks up our sleeves too.”

Iz takinz a joy ridez
Ai iz takinz a joy ridez. This be the only joy ridez ai likez.

It was relentless. Without pause. When one piped down to draw breath, the other would keep the tempo going. Mid-way through, their howls became ominous. And then there was a sudden silence. To be broken a few seconds later by the sound of newspaper being mercilessly tortured. And then the smell of fresh cat poop assailed our nostrils.

We dutifully pulled over at the side of the road. Cleaned up our kittens and the carrier. And proceeded onwards again. And as soon as the car moved forward, their caterwauling began afresh.

Iz bullies youz into submissionz
Ai bullies youz into submissionz. You be submitting to mai willz nowz.

Our only salvation, of sorts, was when we finally reached the vet. But even there, they struggled to break free of our grasp. To escape the horrid humans who put them through that torturous car ride. Which they probably realized would begin again soon enough, for they had to be taken home.

The drive back was an equal torture, with their ever rising howls reaching an alarming crescendo. I was surprised that the motorists around us couldn’t hear anything. That the policeman at the traffic light thought nothing was amiss, that we were just another couple returning home from work.

Iz bravez and mighty hunter. Be scared. Be very scared.
Ai bravez n mighty hunter. Be scared. Be very scared.

By the time we entered the house, my head was pounding furiously. But our ordeal was far from over. For now we had to clean those kittens up properly. With water and Savalon and disinfectant. And then examine our clothes for traces of cat poop and soak them in disinfectant too.

My nerves were frazzled by the time we were done. All I wanted was a stiff drink to put me out of my misery (and I’m not much of a drinker. And no ma, I didn’t drink!). With a half-crazed look in my eyes I turned to the husband and said, “Thank God we don’t have or want kids! Or this would be our life. Four, five, maybe even more times a day. And then, within a month, I would have to be admitted to a mental hospital!”

Iz eatz yurz earz, ok?
Ai eatz yur earz, ok?

I want to erase that trip from my mind like a bad memory. Like something that never happened. And when I see them sleeping so cutely, I can almost forgive them for that nightmare. Almost.

Wez innocent little furballz. Our humanz be spoiling our namez. We no do neything they sayz we do
Wez innocent lil furballz. Ah hoominz be spoilin ah namez. We no do neything dey sez we do. Promise.

Summer, oh, how I hate you summer!

I hate despise detest hate really really hate don’t like summer – never have, never will. At least as long as I live in Delhi and have to endure 45 degrees of heat with gusts of hot wind thrown in for free.

But as much as I may hate summer, there are barely any a few moments I’d can stand like to revisit.

Like a friend’s impulsive decision to gift herself a puppy on her birthday, which falls in April, right at the beginning of summer, before the fear of being roasted alive in the heat becomes a reality. That impulsive decision led to an impromptu lunch plan that allowed me to meet her adorable golden retriever as a pup before he became big and huge and all dog-ey. I’m not a huge dog fan, as I suppose you can guess. Pups though, I love.


As the mercury rose and it became impossible to even stick my hand out on the balcony (don’t ask me why I would want to that, I’m sure I won’t have an answer!), I spent all my weekends laid up in bed or curled up on the sofa with the air conditioning on, reading like there was an imminent ban on books. I must have read about 25 books between April and July, and then I wonder how come I have nothing to blog about except book reviews and, let’s see, even more book reviews!


The other thing I really like about summer is ice cream. There’s nothing like a large scoop of the delectably creamy, cold, sweet, flavorful stuff to cool you from the inside-out on a hot, sticky summer night.

And when the heat became too much to bear, this year, I switched loyalties to roasted corn on the cob. Why, you ask? Because a friend told me that she was eating one every day hoping to please the Rain Gods. What’s the connection? Damned if I know! If eating an ice cream everyday would make it rain, I’d do that too, and to hell with my waist line!
(Note: it doesn’t work – monsoon didn’t start in earnest until last week, and we’ve been stuffing our faces with corn since about a month.)
roasted_corn_on_the_cob (bhutta)

When all else fails, I just hightail it out of Delhi. Last year, I took off to New York, and I fell truly, madly, deeply in love with this vibrant, energetic, crazy city.


This year…

I evidently went nowhere. Which is what leads to a totally snarky, bitchy blog post.

Enough said!

Linking up, yet again, with:

Mama’s Losin’ It