Doggy style

I record my thoughts the way a dog marks his territory.

There seems to be a method to this madness.

Pink posterity

I've never been completely honest with any diary that I've confessed to...

a rosy posterity has always been more important than expiation 

or the pursuit of in self.

I am a liar,

to myself 

and 

more so to others...

Perhaps that is the only truth 

I can permit myself to disclose.

Martyr

Drinking black coffee made me feel like a martyr-some one who forgoes the pleasures of a creamy, frothy sweet coffee with the choicest of the toppings...

As a kid I faked an allergy to eggs to avoid eating them.I hated the way the yolk stinks.

Still do.

I've stopped eating simple carbs.

The object of my dieting was never weight loss or weight gain.

Self control.

Thats what it was.

And external control.

In a life that is largely run on schedules and timetables set by someone else, this is one small area where I can still wield power-exert some control-retain some sanity.

I've eschewed rice and roti and embraced eggs and beans.

I still don't like them...eggs, but I'm certainly not allergic to them.

Recently, after a short snorkelling session in the glassy waters of the cook islands, I found out that I'm allergic to sun...polymorphic light reaction is the medical terminology, but the results are large scale scaling of the skin...I turn reptilian, and itchy, and oozing red.

I switched over to chai recently.

It's tiring being a martyr.

My chai is light-just one teabag, very sweet-two heaps of sugar and one third milky.

The chai is an exception to my diet, but I do retain some control over it.Never more than a cup a day.

Some habits die hard.

I'm normalizing slowly, I think.

I'm normalizing...or thats what my intentions are.

How can you remember

-------- Original message --------
Subject:
From: "Keshavarao.2001"
To: keshavarao.2001.onetwothree@blogger.com
CC:



How can you remember

what you've not understood?

You are a collector of memories

of sights, sounds and feelings

But blinder than a blind bat,

eyes wide shut,

ear drums perforated

And full blown sensory neuropathy.

Forever unsure of what you see,

Or ever saw, heard or felt,

and all that remains is fog, mist and dust

For you are a collector of memories

And of memories of memories!

Proust on people you hate.

The whole art of living is to make use of the individuals through whom we suffer.

Proust on people we suffer from

The whole art of living is to make use of the individuals through whom we suffer.

Sent from Samsung Mobile

We are same same, but different

                              As I was travelling towards Mumbai I happened to be seated next to a loud mouthed foreigner dude.

He was fascinated with my current phone (Samsung Galaxy SII), and before we knew it we were talking about each others lives.

He had a blackberry.

I could not hide my pity.

Well, at least it wasn't a nokia.

He was a thirty plus canadian settled in dubai, making his living as a pianist.

I was...well, still the same old me-a salty sea dog on my way to new zealand.

He went first.

I've come here to meet my girlfriend, he said.

She's a doctor, he said.

NOWAYS!GETTOUTTAHERE! My wife is a doctor.

Ah...she's an intern, just a student right now,he said.

NOWAYS!GETTOUTTAHERE! My wife is a student too.

She's in manipal right now, he said.

NOWAYS!GETTOUTTAHERE! My wife is from manipal too.

She was actually born in Madras, he said.

NOWAYS!GETTOUTTAHERE! My wife was born in madras too.

Are you sure its not the same girl? he asked now, a bit nervous.

Just to be on the safe side, he showed me her photo, on his blackberry torch.

It's not the same girl, I reassured.

Ain't she a beauty? He asked, in a curious cockney accent.

          Being in dubai for the last six years, with expats from different caucasian communities has given him a confused mix of accents- sometimes he's a loud nuu yawker, sometimes south african,  sometimes canadian, eh?,  sometimes he's an aussie may-te...while I try to drown out my own incredibly incomprehensible indian accent and speak as neutrally as possible.

(seriously-whites cannot understand the indian accent or our turn of phrases, just like I find singaporian accent funny la!)

I even show him my beautiful wife's photo, just to assuage his fears.

He is relieved,but he still asked...are they sisters?

This is when I explain to him the Texas Sharpshooter's fallacy.

                          But if this was an interaction between a girl and a boy, I would have used all the above points to show how much our stars were aligned and how much we were destined to meet like this.

Ah...stupid psychology...y u spoil all mysteries of serendipity?