| Lifted Tuba 的个人资料Rajesh K Nair照片日志列表 |  工具  帮助 |
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Rajesh K NairWell, make yourself at home... 2月5日 Lonely in your Absence... I close my eyes, I see her from behind ...
Her hair is a moonless night, darkest and yet serenely peaceful
She turns around ...
And the moon appears... only clearer than the celestial one
She sees me ...
Two twinkling stars... innocently enticing me into its depths
Asking of me mischievous questions without uttering a word
Or is it my imagination
She smiles ...
Her smouldering radiance... igniting smiles on other faces around
She moves ...
Her grace, she's a falling snowflake, a flowing river
She approaches ...
Her scent... a hundred roses would feel inadequate
With her hands, she gestures to me...
Magic wands waving mesmerising arcs through the air
Like a fly, I'm drawn to her flame ...
A flame that can consume me, I'm aware
Unable to withdraw, not wanting to either
An embrace in it is worth a painful death
I reach out ...
Just as I take that leap of faith
She stops, having put on a mysterious mask
A glint in her dancing eyes, I can't comprehend
An evasive smile, that suddenly feels different
She turns around, and walks away.
I'm scalded, and yet not consumed
I've fallen, and yet not lastingly broken
With scars, that I'm sure will eventually fade
But for now, it hurts, this loneliness ... 12月5日 Everyone looks like Rajesh... ... is the name of this sitcom I'm going to produce one day, on the lines of those American ones with a laughter soundtrack played at the end of every punch line, so the people watching know when to start laughing. And this sitcom is going to be based on a true story - mine. Wondering what I'm talking about? As a prelude, as per the tamilians, with the numerous tamil movies I've seen as reference ofcourse, there are seven individuals in the world who look exactly alike. So, like you and me, there are six others, residing in some corner of the world, and this is the tale of how I got to trace them, well, most of them.
It all started in school, where this lovely classmate and friend of mine was a huge fan of Shahrukh Khan. And she felt I looked a lot like him. Now whether she was friends with me because I resembled Shahrukh Khan or she said I resembled Shahrukh Khan because she wanted to be friends with me, I know not., though I do secretly wish it was the latter. And after all these years, since we are even closer friends now, I presume the similarity must have only grown.
So hey, I'm a Shahrukh clone, I can use that to score on some girls, yeah! With that thought, I proceeded to college life. One night at the hostel, out of the blue one hostelmate says (probably it was the alcohol in him talking),
'Hey, look at Rajesh (though the exact word he used to address me wasn't that decent), doesn't he resemble Shahrukh Khan a lot?'
The state he was in I wouldn't have been surprised if he felt I looked like Queen Victoria, but I was still briefly elated only to be put down by another remark from somewhere,
'Yeah, Shahrukh Khan who just fell down a chimney and got burnt all over'.
Ok, so I'm dark. But that put an end to my 'Shahrukh Khaning', if you know what I mean.
And so the legend goes on to say how I survived through college, ofcourse with a lot more embarrassing moments than this, onto professional life. One such day at work at a customer's site, as was usual I was sitting idle in office in the midst of a romantic chat with a cute online friend, with a webcam, mic, headphones and all the paraphernalia (sorry folks, my company isn't recruiting at the moment), when she abruptly says,
'Hey, turn a little to the left... good, now a little to the right... oh my god'.
I ask, 'What happened?'
'You know what? You look a lot like my uncle . Infact, you look just like him, only a little younger'
No use pursuing this girl now. But god bless her for mentioning the 'younger' part.
Another day in Mauritius, I'm out for a stroll and a shopping spree, all during work hours again (sorry guys, my comapny really isn't recruiting). Am at the book section of this supermarket, with one eye on the books and another on the security guard (by the way, why do they always come running if you spend more than half an hour on one book?) In comes a girl of about sixteen or so, with a group of her friends, all in school uniform. She sees me, looks suddenly guilty, and with a nervous smile starts introducing me as her brother to her friends. Just as I wonder why my mom and dad never mentioned about their trip to Mauritius, she stops short, takes a look at my clothes, looks at me more closely and breaks into a giggling fit. As it is, I'm all nerves playing hide and seek with the security guard, now this and I'm all ready to run. Finally she squeaks out, 'I'm so sorry, I thought you were my brother, you look just like him'.
Aah, but ofcourse. I should have known.
Right! So, I get on with my exciting life and move on to Chennai. Since I think I have a good chance of reducing my waist size (and my shrink thinks he has a good chance of curing me of such fantasies), I invest a little of my hardly earned money at a local gym. The second or third evening there, a trainer walks over and with an embarrassed smile asks,
'Hello sir, what is your name? Do you have a twin brother or something?'
Yes, quadruples infact... one is a movie star, another an uncle to a pretty lady of my age, and another a brother of a little girl in Mauritius. But I say, 'No, I don't. Why do you ask?'
'Sir, you won't believe this, but I have a friend who looks exactly like you'
Yes, right. Now thats something I wouldn't believe.
'He walks like you, he talks like you, it's almost like you'll were twins' ... quintuplets my friend, quintuplets.
Well atleast all five are apparently doing well. You know, somehow it's a relief to know one of us isn't blowing himself up in some cave in Afghanistan or starving to death in some desert in Africa or unthawing himself somewhere in Siberia, call it brotherly love or whatever you want. And as for the remaining two... like my actor brother says in some movie, 'to remain elusive... yeh to mushkil nahin... na mumkin hai'. 10月23日 The case of the missing underwear Inspired from my good friend Nishant's blog, I've decided to put down in writing those wonderful moments from college and hostel life that have so far only been carried around in a very fond part of my mind. And as is the case for everyone else, these moments aren't few, and hence its only fair to have an entire category created for them.
So, having accomplished this without too many complications, I move onto the first entry, 'The case of the missing underwear'. In contrast to what the title impresses, the incident didn't warrant, nor receive any eminent investigative officers or their skills. It wouldn't justify a national uproar either. Therefore, before you call in your office mates swatting flies around you, to take a look, do read through the whole thing. (I do find it necessary to lay out these right now, for, the way our country is going, we don't need much to create a national crisis, do we)
Hostel life is one where you learn management skills of the kind that aren't taught in any of those sought after B - schools. Managing to survive on an empty toothpaste pack for a month and a half, using iron boxes, suitcases and college text books to coax the paste out of, managing to bathe morning and night with your neighbour's soap, ofcourse without his knowledge, bathings skills to wash your body from head to toe in a quarter bucket of water and storing the rest for the following day, and ofcourse managing to keep your clothes washed, both outer and inner, with neither detergent, nor the time. With this as the norm, it isn't surprising to find in every guy's room, a growing heap of underwear dying to be washed. Then what happens to the trousers or shirts or t-shirts, one might ask noticing only the underwears mentioned. No, I do not have any kinky attraction to underwears. Instead, I must add that the average period of use of a shirt between two washes is atleast a month, and for trousers, atleast a couple of months. Socks, handkerchiefs and other such non-conspicuous items aren't washed at all. They're only put out of use if stolen, lost or torn into too many bits that can't be put together. Underwear too are inconspicuous (atleast in those days, when it wasn't yet the trend for trousers to start from halfway down the ass), but then our motto was always, 'A clean crotch leads to a peaceful mind (in college, that is)'.
We have in hostel two kinds of people. One is the kind who are meticulous and well planned, who take stock of their clothes, dirty and clean, press them, stitch them or steal them well in time before the monday morning blues begin. And inevitably, the second is the kind who are too busy over the weekends, watching the latest movie or playing from morning to evening or simply sleeping away with alarm-interrupted breaks for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It is this latter kind that have the most hectic of monday mornings. The tooth brush is missing, the towel is missing, the bucket is missing, and the water supply's stopped. Having endured these tiny hurdles bravely, the hunt for clothes begins. Thus goes their lives.
The same it was in our lovely hostel too. I'd like to mention that I was part of the former kind, as were my room mates, Rohith and Prasad (I shared a room with two guys, just cause I loved their company). Whereas our immediate neighbour (whose name I wouldn't mention for physical reasons again) were of the latter kind. Now by some divine fortune, I dry my innerwear some place far away, while Rohith uses the window bars to hang his. I must mention here that it makes a pretty good sight this, when seen from the hostel grounds, especially at night. Anyway, one such monday morning, having ensured that all clothes are ready for wear, from underwear, banian, shirt, trouser and footwear, Rohith along with Prasad and myself went to the mess for our vitalising breakfast.
On our return, all was well until Rohith started dressing up. The underwear was gone. It had simply vanished. He first thought it must have got blown away in the wind down to the grounds below. But a quick trip down there revealed no underwear. Then we three began a frantic search in all cupboards, drawers and suitcases. Still no underwear. And our usually late neighbours seemed to have left for college pretty early. So, we couldn't ask them either to help us. Now, I wouldn't specify if Rohith finally had a spare underwear or if he didn't wear any that day to college, cause thats for him to clarify. But we finally gave up on the search and decided to leave for college.
In the evening, after an uneventful college day, as we were sitting around trying to solve the mystery of the missing underwear, in comes our neighbour. He dutifully strips down to his briefs, shows Rohith that his underwear had been in a safe place all day long, on his waist that is, thanks him for the opportunity to wear it, and with a promise of handing it over the next day properly washed and pressed, leaves. To this day, as far as my memory goes, though the mystery was solved, Rohith never got another glimpse of that precious piece of cloth. I only hope, wherever it is, it isn't too uncomfortable. Needless to say, Rohith promptly discontinued his ornamenting of the window bars. 9月20日 And I walked through glass... No, I'm not a saint or a yogi, or atleast not yet, considering the fact that I'm still unmarried. It's just that I have this weird tendency to try and walk through glass. I'm talking about these glass doors, you see. The other day, along with a colleague of mine, I went to Pondicherry. Speaking of Pondicherry, that reminds me. The traffic there is worth special mention. The vehicles go on the road, period. There's nothing more to it. By 'the road' I include the left side, the right side, the pavements and the medians in the centre. As far as I can see, the only way to drive safely through Pondicherry is to keep one leg on the brake and the other on the gas, one hand on the horn and the other covering your face, especially since the people there take it as an insult to their entire family tree when you honk at them.
Anyway, somehow we reach this posh hotel with this cute receptionist sitting there prim and proper. We're the dudes from Chennai (,the Metropolitan if I may mention) visiting lowly Pondicherry, aren't we. So, we put out our chests, hold our heads high and enquire about the room rates and if the hotel has this facility and that facility, stuff that we'd never utilise even dead drunk. Finally we settle for a room much to the relief of the flustered receptionist, and I walk out to tell the porter which bags to bring up.
BANG !!! Birds and stars everywhere, funny taste in my mouth and a loud drilling in my ears. I just walked through the hotel all-glass front door. Luckily the glass didn't break, so we didn't have to sleep on the beach. Gathering all my senses, I covered my face in my hands, partly due to the pain, but mainly so that the other public don't see who this blind joker was. My clothes I could change lest they recognise it was me, but my face? Ofcourse I could have used this cream on the markets these days that can turn a gorilla into Tom Cruise in a week's time, but the idea didn't strike me then. And as the hotel staff gathered around to see if everything was alright and to give medical aid, I threw a glance at the receptionist. Poor girl, she was trying her best to look concerned while trying not to choke stifling her laughter.
Now, the point here is not this instance of embarrassment. If that were the case, I'd bring out an entire series that'd put these television serial story writers to shame. Unfortunately the issue is my tendency, or more aptly, my inclination towards glass doors and obstacles. Believe it or not, this wasn't the first such incident. About five years ago, at my company office, I was leaving for the day when I had to impress this cute receptionist at the door. Having asked her a stupidly obvious question, I finished it off with a smart ass quote and walked away exactly like James Bond does (atleast I thought so), an eye on her to catch that impressed look, when BANG !!! (the rest, you already know)
The best part is, the Commercial Manager sitting nearby comes out running and tells me very solemnly, 'It's a very expensive door. You could also get hurt doing these things'. 'Yeah right sir, I have this passionate hobby of running myself into closed doors to see how far they swing on impact'. Anyway, I didn't have the heart to retort back lest I see the receptionist's face. Ignoring the pain, I ran away quickly in embarrassment.
So, you see, the problem is confirmed now. Put together a cute receptionist, myself, a glass door and a concrete barricade in between and I'd still end up walking right into that glass door. I've even compiled a law for this, which goes as - 'In the vicinity of a beautiful lady in a reception, the presence of a glass partition, will lead me in a weird motion, directly into the glass partition, leading to sudden changes in physical composition causing acute excruciation' (ofcourse, with all due respect for Sir Isaac Newton and Galileo and the rest of the gang). Anyone reasearching into airbags for glass doors? Just asking. 7月6日 Kill the Females Trends aren't set just in the cities. For the past century and a half, a very bad trend is being followed in the remote villages and towns in India, and perhaps even in the cities. The trend of killing the unborn female child. Obviously this is an age old issue, and I just read an article on it. Saddening, to say the least.
We men need women right from the day we're born. Before anything else, we need a woman to bring us to this world. We need them to feed us, to take care of our childhood needs and tantrums, to sing us to sleep, to wash our dirty clothes and make our unkempt beds, to console us when we're sad or angry...well, it goes on and on like a Sooraj Barjatya movie. Breaking the eggshells of childhood, and emerging into the adult world, we need women in new roles. As a friend, as a crush, as someone to drool after and flirt with, as a soulmate and finally as a wife, to live with for the rest of our lousy lives.
And then the attitude takes an about turn. We no more need the women. It is like we have suddenly woken up from some hidden confinement and decide its enough. Henceforth, we shall make do with males. And so, every one of us wants a male child, a Son. A son who will sit on your shoulders, lovingly boisterous and take on the world for you. A son who will make his dad proud one day and take forth the 'khandhaan parampara' and business into the future. And the sad part is that the wife or mother feels the same. 'I want a son, just like his papa.' or 'I want a grandson just like my son'.
I quote from that article the view of a woman from a village in Gujarat, 'Raising a female child is like watering your neighbour's plant'. There are some things that can be slowly amended with time, for instance education for women or abolishing child labour. But with this basic attitude towards bringing up your own daughter, I doubt if anything can even be attempted. On a lighter note, being the perpetual bachelor, my main worry is if there will be any women left for me to marry. Even more worrying is if there will be a girl to marry my son to (yes, I'm aware I mentioned son here, but please note that given a choice, I'd go for a daughter). The funny part is gay relations and marriages among men is more prevalent in those other countries where the sex ratio is hardly a problem, while in our country lesbianism is much more prevalent, further diminishing our dwindling stock of eligible women.
So, what is the reason for all this? Obviously it is the maintenance costs of a female (sorry for putting it so bluntly ladies). Honestly in any society, the female child digs a bigger hole in the pockets than the male. Fashion accessories for the female body are a hundred fold more than the male version, both in quantity and cost. And in our Indian society, we still live with another old evil called dowry (the bride's family compulsorily having to give money or expensive gifts to the groom's family at the time of engagement or marriage). Therefore, the family of the girl child needs to start saving with these in mind, right from the day the daughter is born. Then there are the social stigmas, safety issues, what with all those desperate male bastards galavanting the streets. Anyway, the problems are another whole issue by themselves.
And the solution? Abolish dowry for starters. Guys, shouldn't you be ashamed at taking money from a girl? Comeon, where are your male egotisms when needed? And thinking about it logically, shouldn't you be the one paying something to the girl's family in return for taking away their daughters?
Then we could educate the women about their rights in all those far flung villages and make life for women as good as for the men (I know the respective bodies have already started out on these). I'd even go on to suggest government sponsored, free porn shows for those desperate male bastards like us to reduce those desperation levels somewhat. And while we are at it, let's get more men to have gay relationships and lets get those lesbian women to take a look at us perpetual bachelors. Yeah, I know these are some crazy ideas, but what the hell, I'm not asking to be voted to the Prime Minister's office am I?. Atleast the point is made.
PS: Please do not let the humour and the quips divert any attention away from this serious issue. A female child is as good as a male child, if not better. Please do not kill our future lovely ladies.
Here's the link to the article -
5月26日 Flirt with WarFlashes of light from far exploding shells intermittent in disorder
Reminding of the violence in the surroundings, lest it may be forgotten
Drum beats rolling of the soldiers' boots marching in the distance
Trampling in condescension upon newly conquered soils
Bullets shrieking through the air towards people and property alike
Striking down with force with neither prejudice, nor mercy
With each distant blast, are buildings trembling violently
As I cower in my rat hole in fear, trembling along
And then I see her, so close and yet almost a lifetime away
As she unsettles, sheds her veil and lifts up her face
Through the cracked glass panes, across the wartorn, deserted street
Into the bullet ridden window of my place of shelter, her eye catches mine.
For the briefest of moments, in peace, the surrounding chaos is forgotten
What do I see in them, is it fear of death or is it grief for the dead
Is it concern for a dependent or in despair of solitude
And then in one honest moment, she reveals to me and I see
The fury in those eyes burning against those that dared to oppress
The resignation in those eyes, resignation to what she must do
And even as I comprehend the justness of it all, she blows herself
In an explosion I never heard, in a blinding light I never saw,
But her image so near and yet almost a lifetime away
Etched in me forever.
5月25日 My Mind, My Body and I I have had a revelation. No wait, I have had 'the' revelation. I have been enlightened comme la Gauthama Budha. This one didn't take place under a bodhi tree though, but the rate at which I'm making these revelations during office time, I will end up under some tree very soon. The revelation is that my body and my mind do not get along well. My body seems to have a mind of it's own, and my mind has no mind over matter, I mean latter. Help!!! It has been a while since I've been getting little hints, but now its all as clear as night and day (not if you're in Mumbai, ie, what with all that pollution)
Take for instance the incident when I was at this bus stop, and there was this really huge lady smartly parked next to me. I looked at her, and our eyes met. And then for no reason, my eyes winked. No, I won't say I winked. I never wanted to wink there. And the last thing my mind wants is to wink and get beaten up in front of ten other people on a busy road in a bus stop by a really huge lady. But then, the eyes winked. Thankfully I got this brainwave suddenly and I acted out an oscar winning performance feigning optical invasion from a flying bird. Atleast that is what she must have thought looking at the gimmicks.
Or take for instance this other day on the soccer field. Some pele of the opposite team smacks the ball straight to my face. I can see it coming, and I recollect my mind screaming 'Duck, Duck, Duck you moron, Duck', while my body simply stood there watching the ball all the way as it rocketed into my face. And at the end of the day, who suffers with those bruised lips? Poor me. Talk about third party turmoil.
The best part is when it comes to speech, especially if it is to a pretty girl I want to impress. My mind thinks up a nice opening line, good enough to impress even the snottiest one. As I make the approach, the mind's playing out all possible variations of responses and more wisecracks to counter them. But just as I reach the damsel, my body starts to back out. It starts to sweat all over. Then the fingers start to shake. The eyes start to bulge and scatter suspicious looks here and there. The mouth goes dry and the tongue stays rooted. So what she turns and looks into is a gaping retard, with a dumb smile who's just stepped out of the lunatic ward. If she doesn't scream then, she sure will once the spoonerisms and other slips of the rooted tongue start coming out. Sigh. If only the two could learn to cooperate, many a damsel would be eating off my hands.
Meanwhile my mind ain't all that innocent either. On it's part, it often comes up with all these silly ideas trying to fulfill which, gets me into a lot of trouble. For instance, after watching Mission Impossible the other day, my mind starts to think that I am Tom Cruise. And I get convinced of the same and fly around like a stud, glaring menacingly at every other guy on the road and looking at ladies with a swagger and that knowing smile. 'Hey baby, yeah. How's it going? How about a ... you know *wink*' (that wink being my own doing). This effect is also experienced in the midst of alcohol, especially when the drink is in my inner midst. And then I come crashing down when he replies with his hands (like he just exploded), or she replies with a 'Hey joker, take a look at the mirror will ya? Hmmmpfff ' (like she just imploded). Again whose ego is hurt? Poor mine.
Anyway, now that the problem has been identified, the next step is to find a solution. That is what I'm working on at the moment. I tried meditation, but when I tried to explain that to my boss, he only glared at me and walked off mutterring something about sleeping in office hours or something like that. And that was the end of that. But a solution find I will and till then I won't mind the body and I won't body over the mind.
Peace !!! 5月22日 Mobile's the Word What an invention the mobile phone is. Enables one to always be reachable by friends, can be used as a fashion accessory, can be used to display financial status, capabilities and eccentricities, can play you good music, can keep you entertained with games, can even keep lonely housewives company when used in vibrator mode in different nooks and crannies of the human body, ahem. And I haven't even covered a quarter of their uses.
Back in those days (when I say 'those days', I mean the good old days, old being the catch word), one was lucky to have a simple phone at home. Yes, a fixed phone (but these days even they aren't fixed anymore). I still remember many years back when we got our first telephone connection at home after more than a year of applying and waiting. Everytime it rang, it was pure elation. All family members came running out leaving whatever we were doing, to take in the marvel. It was looked at with awe and given more respect than certain family members, and only dad was only allowed to handle the instrument. Such was the reverence.
And then people were seen carrying around suitcases that they claimed to be phones. That is when mobiles came into being used, I guess. I had a very rich friend, son of a jewellery merchant, and he used to carry one of these suitcases. In those days, it was more like an Bond gizmo. One was allowed to look at it and if lucky, caress it. Nothing more. And as per him, calls were so expensive then that one rarely used them, unless in a total emergency, such as when you're hit by a car and are flying through the air, or ur halfway down the throat of a crocodile, and...well, you get the hang of it, right?
Then I moved onto college and hostel life. Now hostel life for every individual (except if you're a Tata or Birla or an Ambani) is a period of poverty. However much money you receive from home at the beginning of the month, it's the law of hostel science that at the end of it, you're back to those cheap and tasteless but filling 'thattu dosas' , half used cigarette and beedi butts and local, adulterated-with-everything-under-the-sun liquor. Obviously a local call from a land phone to a girlfriend or friend was a special occassion. Under the circumstances, owning a mobile was totally out of the question, especially since you had to carry it with you even to take a shit for fear of someone stealing it, and worse, having to pay for the prepaid cards shelling out all your meagre belongings. And yet, one classmate of mine got one from his dad as a gift. I suppose that was the only mobile phone in the entire college campus. The way it was being used was very interesting though. No calls were answered, and strictly none were made. The instrument was usually taken out when in the presence of pretty ladies, or to have some fun with friends making digital noises and playing games, until one day someone decided to have a say and stole it.
Those were the days. Now every rickshaw puller, taxi driver, car mechanic and beggar on the road has a mobile. They come in all shapes and sizes. You can take snaps with them, make porn movies with them, play and record rock and roll, access the internet, trigger bombs, perhaps even light a cigarette and carry a peg of your favourite beverage. A pickup line in a pub goes like, 'Hey, what's your mobile?' or 'Hello, I have a friend and she has a Nokia. What about you?'. Take a look below at what happens in a mobile store.
Guy walks in.
'Hey there, show me your latest mobile model please.'
'Sure, here you are. It's got polyphonic ringtones, five games with java downloadable option, screensaver, clock, calendar and diary, plays FM and MP3, has got MMS, WAP, GPRS, EDGE, 3G capability, still camera, video camera with and without zoom, calculator, car alarm, a shaving razor, torch and swiss knife. Can be worn on your sleeve, shirt, wrist, neck, belt or bum. All this with one week battery life and comes in hundred different colours and twenty different shapes.'
'Errr... can I make and receive calls on it?'
'Oh, I'm sorry sir, none of our customers have asked that before. I don't really know...'
'Never mind, I'll take it. It goes well with my attitude and that is what matters'.
Nothing more to say.
5月12日 AblutionThe mist clears, the dust has settled and finally the eye can see
Images that were till now blurred, sights that are suddenly clairvoyant
The din finally fades as the last of the echoes too reluctantly make way to
Ear shattering silence intermittently pierced by cries of the creatures of flesh
Wafting through the air the faint odours of fear and the strong stench of death
That bring to mind, those terrible moments to relive, even against my struggles
Thousands of lives, hundreds of thousands of little dreams, withered away
In a moment's notice, and yet sparing the unlucky few to agonise in the memories
The strength I feel no more, it is an effort to take a breath, to even exist
As the haze lifts further, I see many heads slowly lifting up from the carnage
Their efforts to survive against the odds mirroring my own
Just as we give in, helpless and too weak to survive or protest, accepting what may come
The clouds part and the skies open, as if mercifully, moved by all it beheld
The sun shines through, immersed in brightness, rays seeking every niche to reach
Strangely washing away the impure with its glow, the sorrows with its warmth
And I lie here under that warmth, peaceful at last, and purified. 5月10日 An Insomniac's Dream... ...was how a long lost and recently found, good friend of mine described my blog. I took it as a compliment, pleased as punch. And then I looked up the word 'insomniac' - 'Someone who cannot sleep'. Now what does someone who cannot sleep really crave for? Sleep, obviously. Now the punch took an all new meaning. Was the blog so boring that it put insomniacs to sleep? Anyway, there on I stopped thinking more about it, one of those things I picked up from an eccentric friend. Anyway, but this is just another way to neatly get into talking about sleep, or rather lack of it.
In the past, I used to sleep like a baby, or so my mother says. Am not talking about my life in diapers, cause then it would be pretty weird to not sleep like a baby, wouldn't it? Am talking about as recent as a couple of years back, when I still used to sleep like a baby. And no, I don't mean in diapers. Apparently I used to sleep so soundly, that as per my mom, the whole house could come down and I'd hardly miss a breath. And the worst thing she says is when the others around cannot sleep due to my snoring. Ofcourse, I don't believe a word of that, I have never seen it happen. On a serious note, isn't it strange that people are easily awakened by others snoring around them, but their own snoring, however loud, never awakens them? My theory is that each of us snore at different frequencies and thus our body becomes immune to our own frequencies, however large the magnitude. (if u didn't notice, I am kidding there).
And even in the post-employed period, things weren't different. During those official trips to different cities in India, I was always the one who held up the party with my tardiness. Not trusting the whimpering alarm on my phone, I entrust the hotel receptionist to wake me up. The poor beings must have dialled my room till their fingers ached before I wake up. So, at this moment, let me take a pause and thank all those hotel receptionists for their strenous workouts. And when I settled down into this apartment in Mauritius, the land lady who also kept the house took it upon herself to ensure that I wake up to reach office atleast on time for lunch. Since she cannot enter my bedroom, thankfully too, she wakes me up by knocking on the bedroom door at first, then slowly graduating to pounding and finally to ripping down the door off its hinges. Those were the days, sigh.
So then, why is it that now I can no more sleep in peace, or like that baby? Often I go to bed very early, keen to catch a good rest and keep tossing and turning around, going over things that have been done, of things that need to be done, of ups and lows of the day, month, year and life and every other worthless thing, before I finally get to sleep. And even then, I find myself waking up in the dead of night, for no apparent reason, to resume my tossing and turning around antics. Atleast the old habits persist as far as the snoring goes, according to my present colleague and flat-mate. Though I still refuse to believe a word of it. Apparently the problems of life have gotten important enough to creep in and deprive me of my sleep and peace.
As we grow older, it is inevitable that our problems grow with us. Many of these can be quite sober, grave or life-influencing. But the stupid ones among us take them to bed, and thus lose their peace. Let me attempt a quote here, 'Problems are like television sets. Once you get them into your bedroom, they never get out, and they take up all your sleep'. Hmmm, pathetic, even by my standards. Anyway, I guess its time I got a little smart, leave my problems outside the bedroom door, put on my diapers and hit the bed. And snoring? Who's snoring? |
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