Schipol. June 13, 2011.

I am five feet tall.

I have a flight to catch in twelve hours. I'm in a foreign land, and I have no hostel reservations. So the friends and I camp at the airport. Two seats, one backpack, towel rolled under the head. All set for a peaceful night.

Click-Clock-Click-Clock.

A pair of yellow clogs.
A pair of yellow clogs with a huge man in them.

"Hello. Where are you from?" In broken English.
"India."

We chat a bit. Slowly. We chew our words. We try to understand.

"You know good English," he says, then he brings his thumb and index finger close to each other. "I speak a small English."

"You mean a little." I smile.

He has a booming laugh.
"My daughter is as old as you. She speaks English. Studies in University."
Another gesture. Two fists going up and down successively. "I live on farm. Milk cows."

I thought about him today.

Image from google search results :P

Damn, I miss traveling.

Thinking out loud. Why books are like people.

I think about art. A lot.

The more I think about it, the more I realize I'm attracted to all things unconventional.
Take music, for instance. A song is playing. Suddenly there is silence, and out of nowhere a group of people start clapping in rhythm. I dig that stuff. I love that people who know music don't need conventional instruments to create melodies.

Take this scene from Scrubs for example:

You're right. The video is what started this whole stream of thoughts. This, and Imogen Heap. That woman is amazeballs. Because amazeballs is something I've heard all the cool kids say.
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"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it."

- Words to live by. Catcher in the rye.

I've been meaning to do a post on the books I've been reading. I've read nearly thirty in the last year, give or take 2-3 months. Yep, I've sort of been keeping a record. Because here's the thing: nothing really sticks till you make lists and review them.

I've probably said this before. Each book is like a relationship to me. I hate it when a book that I have loved comes to an end. This post is about the different relationships I have had in the last year. It's about the chemistry that I shared with the books I read, not what the world feels about them.

I wanted to do a post sooner, but I'm glad I didn't because now I can tell which ones had a long lasting impact. By a long lasting impact, I mean books that I would like to read again and again. The total number of books that fit this description are... a whopping FOUR.

Catcher in the rye.
The time traveler's wife.
Midnight's children.
Moab is my washpot.

That's that.

One way I know a book has really had an influence on me is when my dreams start getting heavily influenced by them. All four of these books gave me dreams I wouldn't have had otherwise.
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In the second tier come the books that I liked a lot, but I won't mind giving them away to a very, very dear friend if need be.

Emperor of all maladies. (I took the longest time to finish reading this book. it was like a beautiful marathon across different terrains of the history of medicine.)
Haroun and the sea of stories.
Luka and the fire of life.
The graveyard book.
Cat's cradle.
Cancer ward.
Cutting for stone.


Notice that three of them are children's books. And three of them are related to medicine.

I discovered Salman Rushdie and Neil Gaiman last year. Pretty late, I know. I had read short stories by Rushdie on the inter web before, but last year firmly established him as one of my favorite authors of all time.

Neil Gaiman deserves a special mention. I had seen Stardust. I had heard of Coraline, and American Gods, and Sandman. But I hadn't actively tried to read any of his work till I discovered the man himself on twitter. I read his blog, and I fell head over heels in love with him. As a person. Because blogs are not fiction. I picked up The graveyard book, and absolutely loved it. So Neil Gaiman is one reason I will always be thankful to the internet.
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Here I must mention the authors who were already in category one: Wodehouse, Conan Doyle, and Douglas Adams. I can't claim to have read all of their work, but I have read some of it more than once. And some day, I will be able to make that claim. I am sort of a late bloomer.

Then of course, there is J.K. Rowling. Those books are my entire childhood. There isn't much else I can say. And each year I give a couple of those books their nth read.
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Now for things a bit unpleasant: The Disappointments.

The Fry Chronicles. 
I fell madly in love with Moab is my washpot. I have been thoroughly in love with Stephen Fry since I started watching "A bit of Fry and Laurie" and "Q.I." To me, The Fry can do no wrong. Except this once. Maybe I expected too much. I ordered The Fry Chronicles soon after I finished reading Moab. How I obtained it is another long story. Suffice it to say I blabbered like a tiny little fan girl about it the day the order came in. I skipped Diwali celebrations in college to read this book. Sadly, it didn't give me the same kick as it's prequel. Sure, there are parts of it I distinctly remember, but the quotable quotes I picked up from Moab were missing. It was a bit...I hate to say it, but it was a bit dry. I do not for a second doubt Stephen Fry's capabilities as an author. The Liar will be obtained soon, because come what may, The Fry can do no wrong. Mostly.

American Gods.
This book is dark. It takes you places you haven't heard of before, it exposes you to mythology like never before; but it kept me waiting for the dreams. It's like when a life event almost changes you forever. It doesn't. The book was almost great. Sadly, these things operate on the "all or none phenomenon."

Love in the time of cholera.
A clear case of the magic getting lost in translation. Or maybe I don't really believe in eternal love.I did like the dead doctor husband more than the pining lover. That's all I remember anyway.

Three cups of tea.
This book was a gift from one of my favorite people in college. I had wanted to read it for a long time. The author was discovered to be a fraud the day after I finished reading the book. So, there.

(Note: The Disappointments aren't books that I suggest you shouldn't read. We just didn't work so well as a team, these books and I. The first two made it to this category because I was disappointed in myself that I didn't like them enough. I'm a bit of a hero worshiper.)
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Then there were the Casual Acquaintances. Relationships that I enjoyed while they lasted, but I don't really regret the fact that they're over. Relationships you form to keep yourself from losing it in the rut of routine living.
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So, there.

This had to be done.

Adios.

Yellow

Yellow petals,
Withered, crumpled, strewn across the floor.
No one to face the sun.

Grey ashes,
Rising smoke, an unhinged door.
The air heavy, and voices numb.

Hear them shout, they know the meaning,
Love, life, wisdom, they are teeming.
Drum roll, encore, you hear them sing.
Let's run away now, no time to think.

They are the smoke- skyward bound.
Hollow, nothing but words profound.
They are the petals that lay on the floor,
uprooted, part of something more.

We opened the doors of decadence,
We scanned the floors and stepped on thorns.
Sanity, of you an echo remains,
Lingering, haunting, when all has been and gone.

(Written in two days within the span of a year. Inspired slightly from the opening lines of "Howl", Allen Ginsberg.)

Revival Rant.

I have seen medical interns drop off the blogosphere like, erm, stuff, y'know, because there's gravity.
So. Yes. I never thought I'd be one of those interns.

Apparently I'm constantly overestimating myself. And that thing about wearing other people's shoes before judging them? I hope as hell it's metaphorical, because man, am I picky about footwear.

Turns out, quite a few things have happened in the last month or so.
Turns out, none as earth shattering as I would have expected them to be.
Life is constantly underplaying itself. I used words to splash some color here and there in the past, but they're slipping away slowly.
And I'm too busy living to notice any of it.

The hospital, without doubt, is an interesting place to spend most of your time in. I wouldn't have it any other way.

What else can a girl ask for, eh?

Creep.

Image courtesy google. Of course.

So I’m drowning in my own fluids. I can almost hear the gastric juices gurgling inside my
trachea as my lungs fill up.

It’s three in the morning and there’s a deathly silence. Quite literally so. It is punctuated by the rhythmic beeps and respiratory noises of the ventilator attached to the lady who lies beside me.

The door screeches open and the intern walks in for her morning chores. She’s barely a month into the job. She passes one glance at me, and sees me gasping for breath. I bet I look pretty scary to her in my condition. I wear a gown that could fit three of me. My bones threaten to pierce my skin in various places across my body. When I’m really bored, I like to imagine the battle waging inside me. My skin is the shield, my bones are swords. My blood is acid rain. I can see the boundaries of the socket of my eyes because they’re sunken. I feel like I live in a den.

I digress.

The intern realizes I’m sick, pushes the paperwork aside, talks to my wife for a few seconds, and rushes to wake up the doctor on duty. ‘Asshole’, they call him when he’s out of earshot. He’s okay, really. Not as genteel, maybe, stays a little cranky all the time, but he’s known to get the job done.

There’s a flurry of activity. It’s twenty past three. All lights are switched on, and from my den it looks like I’m in a tunnel with a train approaching. Then I see the fan, moving slowly. A few faces, another tube inside me. The whirring of a machine, sucking out fluid. I see Asshole standing over me, stethoscope plugged in, touching the knuckles that are my ribs, listening to life gush inside me as the fluid goes out. I’m not drowning anymore.

Oh well, there’s always another day.



Disclaimer: All situations and people mentioned in this story (?) are fictional. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental. yada yada yada. Get the drift.

The man with a phantom leg

"Strange days have found me." I don't know what led me to write this. I don't know what it means. I don't even want to read into the subtext, if there is any. I hope you like it, but I don't know if you will.

Did you hear the tale
Of the man who was pale
And walked on a phantom leg?

No, no, he wasn't frail
Lived through many-a gale
Of pity he never begged.

Well, I don't know how it started
How his foot departed
He was born with a leg or two.

If I sat down and charted
his early years: he only darted
Where he went no one had a clue.

Then life took a strange turn,
There were wounds, there were burns
Thus suffered our protagonist.

Like his life, our story churns
As he fights, our story turns
To unravel the truth, and clear the mist.

Now words aren't easy to come by,
Making them sound alike is hard, though I try.
So I'll change my rhyme,
Because the story is sublime.

Faced with a troubled tomorrow,
Our hero drowned in his sorrow.
(But only for a little while;
you know how heroes love the extra mile.)

He started out with a prosthetic,
Wasn't too pleased with the aesthetic.
Then there were special chairs,
but for wheels he did not care.

And he couldn't control the pain.
He felt his missing leg: it was insane.
He did turn bitter, I will not hide the fact.
Turned moody and grumpy, put an end to the joyous act.

A year went by, maybe two.
There's only so much you can do,
When your disposition is tragic,
You let go and wait for some magic.

Not just therapy, run of the mill,
But a miracle: and miracles follow strong will.
Tired of being weak, sick of being the gimp,
Our man started a journey, he began with a limp.

He walked for miles, (like Forrest Gump.)
Picked up when he slowed, not once did he slump.
Limping, and flailing, he saw cities and country fairs.
Soon the word got around: "there's a man who walks on air!"

(Abrupt. I know. Open to interpretation. Why didn't he use a crutch, you ask. Because I have poetic licence, that's why. Bite me. But after you've left a comment.)

OHai People!

Wow. Looks like I haven't posted anything here in a while. I could say internship is keeping me busy, but I would be lying. In fact, the real being busy doesn't begin till Thursday. Then you'll see me around, because venting will be needed.

I have loads to tell, children. I have stories for you. These are tales of gore, and of death, and of defiance, and of love surviving all setbacks. All of these tales have one thing in common, children: jittery knees and morbid fear of ineptitude.

This too shall pass, of course. Further discourse is withheld till the aforementioned righteous passage has been experienced. *Insert screechy noise they make in movies to signify random halt in story line*

Anyway.
Turns out I had time to kill this morning and I went through my "writing diary" from school days. I had pasted in it all the poems, and short stories I had ever written from the ages of thirteen to seventeen ("wow, you did poetry as a teenager too?" "HellzYea, bitchez.")

While they are too embarrassing to deliberate on any more, what really hit me was that inherently, I haven't changed at all in all these years. My circumstances have, and with them my reactions have. But the things that are the essence of my being have stayed the same. 

It reminded me of a conversation between Celine and Jessie in Before Sunset (woman, do a post on that movie already!) where she talks about reading her journal from when she was nearly eight, and she still felt that she hadn't changed much in nearly twenty five years. I kind of really like that.

Anyway. (part two.)

*Takes deep breath. Rolls eyes. Gropes around mind.*

Well, there isn't much more to say. I just had to drop by my own blog and pull it out of the pit of non-existence.

You may expect a poem soon. Or you may not. I mean, come on, I'm no Walt Whatsitsman. Not that I mind inflicting the mental out-pours on the sorry folks who bother to come here. Except you, of course.

Lots of love, YouGuys!

Be good.

XOXO *blinks eyes repeatedly*