Saturday, November 20, 2010
Check in baggage.
Sure you read this blog ( HAHA.) but will you know who I am, if incase you spot me at the Airport ?
No, right?
(Just nod.)
I'm the girl who takes time to push the heavy luggage trolly and you'll see me stuggling with my camera bag and that bottle of water and messaging my Mom all at the same time.
The girl who flips through the books at the book store and never buys one.
The one who snorts while laughing, unintentionally.
If incase you are seated next to me during the flight, I'm the one who ALWAYS( unintentionally) sits down in someone else's seat, leaving a hassled passenger and a doubting airhostess.
I'm the girl who stares at the airhostess's lip liner.
I'll be the girl who prays for turbulence during the flight before it takes off.
I'm the girl who'll say 'Wohohohhooooo' when the plane starts taking off.
I'm the one you'll look at and start imagining my life as that of a latch-key 14 year old who goes home to her divorced mother during her summer holidays and takes the flight from Bangalore all alone. Poor little independant kid.
UNTIL, I tell you that I am, infact 18 with extremely happy parents shattering the author in you.
I am the girl who smiles creepily at all the female foreigners.
I am the one with the yellow patch of paint on her shorts.
The one who burps after drinking the coffee they serve, albeit not very loudly.
I am the girl who uses a mobile cover as a wallet because they are way cheaper.
I am the girl you think you'll remember but my face fades away the moment you get off the plane.
I am the girl who'll always order the Non-veg burger at the Airport cafeteria and then regret buying it after the very first bite.
But most of all, the most sureshot way of finding/identifying me in an airport would be to find that one tiny kid who always looks out of place, out of context with a face that bears no sign of being even remotely happy/sad/tired/angry/frustrated at being there.
I am and always will be, forever lost in an airport.
And if you look closely at my hands, you'll realize how much I try to just belong.
No, right?
(Just nod.)
I'm the girl who takes time to push the heavy luggage trolly and you'll see me stuggling with my camera bag and that bottle of water and messaging my Mom all at the same time.
The girl who flips through the books at the book store and never buys one.
The one who snorts while laughing, unintentionally.
If incase you are seated next to me during the flight, I'm the one who ALWAYS( unintentionally) sits down in someone else's seat, leaving a hassled passenger and a doubting airhostess.
I'm the girl who stares at the airhostess's lip liner.
I'll be the girl who prays for turbulence during the flight before it takes off.
I'm the girl who'll say 'Wohohohhooooo' when the plane starts taking off.
I'm the one you'll look at and start imagining my life as that of a latch-key 14 year old who goes home to her divorced mother during her summer holidays and takes the flight from Bangalore all alone. Poor little independant kid.
UNTIL, I tell you that I am, infact 18 with extremely happy parents shattering the author in you.
I am the girl who smiles creepily at all the female foreigners.
I am the one with the yellow patch of paint on her shorts.
The one who burps after drinking the coffee they serve, albeit not very loudly.
I am the girl who uses a mobile cover as a wallet because they are way cheaper.
I am the girl you think you'll remember but my face fades away the moment you get off the plane.
I am the girl who'll always order the Non-veg burger at the Airport cafeteria and then regret buying it after the very first bite.
But most of all, the most sureshot way of finding/identifying me in an airport would be to find that one tiny kid who always looks out of place, out of context with a face that bears no sign of being even remotely happy/sad/tired/angry/frustrated at being there.
I am and always will be, forever lost in an airport.
And if you look closely at my hands, you'll realize how much I try to just belong.
Let's push back the Sun.
Place it right where it belongs, next to the sky.
And then, when you have a day;
You can smile another time and still get past.
Where is that line that divides being too distant and too close; if at all it exists?
And how can they say you've crossed it;
when all they say is in their minds?
When that moment of hesitation strikes, what do you wonder?
Too soon or too late?
If everyone came by on their own intention;
Tell me then, who is fate?
Sometimes my anger is over-rated;
Like a mistaken child's cigarette crate.
Sometimes, it's like the Sun;
And I have to push it back, right where it belongs.
Next to the sky.
P.S- Suddenly random poetry is making its way out of my system, which I am quite neutral to, right now. I feel like I'm the only one who is ever going to read this. I'm beginning to fear that I never really wrote for myself. I wrote because people liked it. And now that they don't, ah that's a story for another time yeah? Wow. I'm such a hypocrite. I don't even have a story.
And then, when you have a day;
You can smile another time and still get past.
Where is that line that divides being too distant and too close; if at all it exists?
And how can they say you've crossed it;
when all they say is in their minds?
When that moment of hesitation strikes, what do you wonder?
Too soon or too late?
If everyone came by on their own intention;
Tell me then, who is fate?
Sometimes my anger is over-rated;
Like a mistaken child's cigarette crate.
Sometimes, it's like the Sun;
And I have to push it back, right where it belongs.
Next to the sky.
P.S- Suddenly random poetry is making its way out of my system, which I am quite neutral to, right now. I feel like I'm the only one who is ever going to read this. I'm beginning to fear that I never really wrote for myself. I wrote because people liked it. And now that they don't, ah that's a story for another time yeah? Wow. I'm such a hypocrite. I don't even have a story.
Friday, November 19, 2010
When my Pa told me to go home, I did.
I went back to the hellhole it had become. The rats ran around jumping from one bowl of china to another.
The beds?
Oh they were hanging from the trees.
"Honey, they're out for drying.",Ma said.
She forgot to add the smile though. Nevermind, I thought.
I wrote a letter to Carrie that night.
Poor little cat that she was, must've cried all night.
Dear Carrie,
How are you? I hope this letter finds you in good health. Is Mrs.Bunberry feeding you enough Salmon? The wind is more chilly here back home. And the curtains make a strange sound at night, like a million sea horses singing.
The toilet has a strange blue colour to it but Pa doesn't take any notice. He's always calculating on his electronic calculator.
I'm having a lot of fun, Carrie. I would say I miss you, but then again, you are just a cat and all you do is cry.
Love,
Arte.
The next morning the maid who was always smiling was lying dead in the kitchen. I think she took a lot of Salmon. Pa said nothing. He kept calculating on his electronic calculator.
Ma wiped off the vomit and Carrie licked up the rest and Mrs.Bunberry picked up the body to use for her wax museum.
When my Pa finished calculating, he told me :
"All the results say the same thing."
"What do they say Pa?"
"You must go back home."
When my Pa told me to go back home, I did.
Except I didn't know which part of the world I might find beds hanging from trees and blue toilets and rats flying.
When I asked Carrie to lead me there, she just cried.
She's only just a cat.
The beds?
Oh they were hanging from the trees.
"Honey, they're out for drying.",Ma said.
She forgot to add the smile though. Nevermind, I thought.
I wrote a letter to Carrie that night.
Poor little cat that she was, must've cried all night.
Dear Carrie,
How are you? I hope this letter finds you in good health. Is Mrs.Bunberry feeding you enough Salmon? The wind is more chilly here back home. And the curtains make a strange sound at night, like a million sea horses singing.
The toilet has a strange blue colour to it but Pa doesn't take any notice. He's always calculating on his electronic calculator.
I'm having a lot of fun, Carrie. I would say I miss you, but then again, you are just a cat and all you do is cry.
Love,
Arte.
The next morning the maid who was always smiling was lying dead in the kitchen. I think she took a lot of Salmon. Pa said nothing. He kept calculating on his electronic calculator.
Ma wiped off the vomit and Carrie licked up the rest and Mrs.Bunberry picked up the body to use for her wax museum.
When my Pa finished calculating, he told me :
"All the results say the same thing."
"What do they say Pa?"
"You must go back home."
When my Pa told me to go back home, I did.
Except I didn't know which part of the world I might find beds hanging from trees and blue toilets and rats flying.
When I asked Carrie to lead me there, she just cried.
She's only just a cat.
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