one of those things........

Why is this special?
It is not. Just another betrayal!! And that does not mean much, really.

We sing glorifying stuff about Vibhishan. But his brother could not have felt great when that one hit him.
Nor could Judas have been easy on poor Jesus.

But the chameleon was easy to forgive and forget- he could not control something that was so intrinsic to him- his very nature.
And so I must accept that some people I trust are not naturally trustworthy. They will do stuff which could be potentially harmful to me.

Mutuality of agreements be damned. And after all at some time I must have done something that made someone feel betrayed. I could not have lived half a century, without that under my belt.

S/He survives who can take care of her/himself. It really does not matter whether I do or not- survive I mean.
What matters is to accept and live in reality. When that gets too ugly to deal with, move on to philosophy- asha dukh ka mool hai kind of stuff that carries you through the real deep shit.

And after, you shall get back to feeling - great.

I thought MACT was a wonderfully Bhopali name

But now it's called Manit.

I hated college - the list of reasons is really long, and too tedious to share here.

But what worked for me was the building especially the long semi open corridoors ( The one from the Principal's office to the Architecture Department was long, lit just right, and the pillar after pillar feeling made me think infinity. And the trees- yes, the trees were something else. Not that the grass was any less significant, the college authorities made a neat sum out of that contract even then.

My favourite season was the monsoon, when acres and acres of the hill would sprout green, with the Eucalyptus trees swaying gently with the water laden wind, that was a little less gentle than a breeze, and stopped a little short of the wild.

The monsoon was- Bhopal!!

But then the slash of red that the Gulmohar flowers made on a grey monsoon sky just before it disappeared for the year, was an inspiration for my dream sari.

The gentle pink blooms of Kachnar were exactly what our home had against the very same purple grey sandstone that the college building was made of. And they were there during the exams- the annual affair in the dry summer heat.

It must have meant something to me- all that beauty, because I remember it over and above the horrible experience that was college.

And now the name of the college has been changed to MANIT- which makes MACT one of the community of Engineering colleges, and takes away that sense of uniqueness- which was what was the charm of being one of the girls in the batch of 1981.

But then, I ain't no girl either. And the facade of the college entrance is so- ordinary now.

So be it.

The guys are much better middle aged. I have felt their concern - one human being to another. And I will take the here and now- at all times.

Craving pink

A young ( by my standards please!!) woman journalist who I met through another journalist, who I know as one of my father's close friend's son, rang me up the other day.

She is currently doing a column on beauty in a weekly, and wanted to know what kind of stuff I might like to read?

Well, faced with that question, my immediate response was- nothing.

I really don't care to read your beauty column at all.

I have carried this chip on my shoulder about inner beauty being the important thing- for a substantial part of my life. Long enough to have wasted some considerable time pretending "looks don't matter" .

And then I remembered this quiz I have taken on Face Book. It says, and this is something that many people, including my long suffering family members, have pointed out ever so often; that I come across as an aggressive person. The quiz adds that I am "not really mean" implying as it were, that I come across that way as well.

But I like M, and she was telling me she respects my opinion.

So I tried to deal with the impulse to speak my whole truth- the impulsive kind. The one about Beauty Columns being a waste of time.

But M is a good journalist I think- tenacious. Only she is young, and which young adult would like to acknowledge that? I have more than a sneaking suspicion she does not want to do this beauty column- would prefer to do more "worthwhile stuff". (Which means it has to be ugly and about the majority of Indians- the poor.) It might not be easy for her either. I bet some people - friends and family- have been pulling her leg. From what she was doing (being the flag/torch bearer) to doing a beauty column could be a come down.

Maybe I could and should extend this conversation a bit, deal with my own initial aggressive response, and check out what she was doing.

I pointed out to her that we had met. Was it not obvious, from the way I presented myself, that inner beauty is what matters to me- and I really am not one of the consumers of beauty products.

Oh dear, I could see that this was part of the game playing- the one I engage in with that particular chip on my shoulder.

As I dealt with that on a side lane in my head, I could acknowledge gradually that actually I do read stuff which is not necessarily meaningful, by being about sad difficult matters.

I do love to read the page 3 kind of stuff too. And I jolly well enjoy it as much as I care to read about the terrible things that are happening in Chhattisgarh. I like the idea of looking exciting as much ( well, almost as much) as I want to ensure some effective action is being taken to rectify a bad situation there.

But what I enjoy most of all is the romance in both. Well maybe in everything.

Whatever the issue, the wrapping has to be romantic for me to be interested.

Facts are useful, and my actions may be determined on the basis of reality. But I would buy only romance- given a choice.

I love the earthy colours for sure, but maybe , just maybe I have longed to be pink.

M has promised to send me a copy of what she does this week.

A pity

I would like to call it a day. But it does not work quite like that.

The mind does not stop functioning. It can be slowed down, purposefully, by making it give up. But it is an effort. So while I hope to make people believe I have called it a day, I know I have not.

Being a democratic person, it makes sense when that is the popular expressed opinion - that I have done enough and it's time I moved on. I think people who tell me to move on, have my good at heart. It is an expression of their love for me.

If longevity is indeed the curse that those who have been around longer say it is, then what is the point of hanging around? I would like to kill myself- but I don't have what it takes. I wish I did.

I just keep doing more stuff. And doing something cannot lead to happiness.

But I don't have what it takes- to stop.