Of Childhood and being Daddy's little girl.

Pleasant happy sight of a family of four frolicking in the park, outside my hostel. A little twinge of sadness for having grown-up, and a sweet happiness at the innocence of children.

I missed Daddy like crazy, when I saw the father, lift his tiny daughter up in his arms, and smothering her with kisses. And when he swung her round and around her,and I could see her face breaking into breath-taking delight. The older daughter was pulling at her Mum's white suit, gesticulating towards a stray, beggarly puppy. All of them, were barefoot on the green grass, I could see their flashy footwear flung carelessly along the stone border of the lawn.


Sometimes, I wish I was a little girl all over again, in a cute, flouncy pinafore and a hankie pinned in a triangle to my front. Scooby Doo school bag, and a red water bottle slung across my neck. My coveted possession was my Donald Duck finger ring and the scariest thing that could happen was getting lost in the super market. And the MOSTEST important thing was to brush your teeth twice daily, and never have too many chocolates, for the gummy yummy brown might make our teeth go bad. " I will tell to Miss",chant by that kid with huge, black eyes, used to give you frightful jitters.

Oh how I wish, I could right now cuddle to my Dad, enormous blankets, covering us in a snowy mass, and s the blue-blue patched mosquito net above us. 

Of my own little concrete cocoon of bliss ( My room).

I love my room. 

Its my alcove, its me.


I love the paper butterflies,that I have stuck to the wall, their wings folded,as if ready to fly. The walls are blue,matte finish. The tube light, hurling shards of its glittery,plastic light at it, makes them glisten- an uneven wave of spongy,shiny softness on the brick creation. 

Once,these packets,dangling from an old,dying wire in a shop caught my attention. A merry hotchpotch of colors, swathed in translucent plastic.On closer inspection, they were stickers of butterflies and honeybees- oh so quaint! The colors were so jolly!Like,fat lil droplets falling back noisily, after splashing on the black,graphic border.  I bought them by a dozen, and spent one,extremely ecstatic afternoon sticking them all over the walls. The same shop once had these packets of neon colored hearts-colors so jubilantly bright, that I was once again found, happily sticking them over my bed, one glorious afternoon. I tell you, it was so ticklish- that feeling, when I pulled each one out of their plastic houses; that sticky-wicky gummy "sssssshrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" of adhesive, and with princess-like flourish, stuck them in random, mad fashion all over.

So now I have a blue wall with red-pink-yellow syrupy dots blinking winking at me, every day every night. I love it!

I have this one happy corner in my room. On my suitcase, draped in a bed-sheet, the color of a squishy,healthy tomato, sits the cutest stool on earth. Pink felt cover, with hearts yawning and oozing all over it. My princess hairband and my bangle of silver,tinkling coins stands on it . Princess hairband of fading silver encircles a smiling teddy hugging a cup made of velvet fur. I heart chocolates is needled across its mossy face.  Next to him, in a basket woven of amber straw with a handle draped in brilliant blue ribbon, sits a tiny dog, wearing cocky sunglasses in red. Satin strands of green and blue are weeping all over it. 


On the wall above, I stuck this Nun bag, so cheery pink in color. And other tid-bits of paper, for their canary colors. And those smart stirrers from HRC. A yellow chimney of scrap paper, squirrels it way up, right to the top. Thats my technicolor wall. A happy confusing riot of paint.

The favoritest thing in my room is my kitschy paper chandelier. I hung it, from ribbon on my window-a funny, pumpkiny color. Oh-oh-oh, its so pretty! A lantern made of blue.The palest,prettiest, demure blue. Ribbed all over. I stuck green butterflies all over its paper body. And dangling from its heart, are a series of butterflies, sown together, with little bells in between them, which make the most divine sound, when the wind playfully nudges the lantern. Oh Twisha! Thank you so much for making it for me! My winsome winsome chandelier.


4 years inside these walls, I loathe to leave!

Of Music. And what it does to you.

Music, is like silk.There is a pounding in my head. Sometimes tortuously slow and sometimes painfully fast. My blood is quivering and so is my soul. Quivering like a globule of water, glimpsed in slow motion- transparent and tremulous.Lyrics, so stunning.Where every sentence breaks, every word truncates, every syllable is torn asunder, and every vowel finally trickles like a serpent all around you. Till you feel pregnant, with the tiny fetus of a sound, somewhere embedded into you. Which feeds on the satin charm of the night, the roar of your emotions, and grows. Grows, burgeons, magnifies, throbs, swells, quavers. And then, it explodes, a fury of passion, a downpour of sentiments.. Almost, an orgasm. Like a coil  of rope, woven of buried feelings, and whispering thoughts, let unloose on you, and it falls down, in one fluid motion, the ends,dangling and gently tickling your feet. Ah, Music.


On my playlist now:
1. Sun and Moon- Above and Beyond.
2. Rain- Markus Schulz.

3. Nothing but You- Paul Van Dyk.


Good Morning and Good Night :)

Of Time. Of Life.

No more, do I seek to give advise to people tormented. Souls lacerated by dying love, minds poisoned by hate, bodies convulsing in harrowing inner pain.  For, no matter how eloquent my discourse, how tender my touch, and how rational my thoughts.. this heart, oh this heart!

Its time, its the fat lady Time who trundles along life, hand in hand with you. Its only, she who can make you okay. With every day, the hurt will fade, albeit just a tiny, minisicule bit. With every day, the storm of questions, will find one lonely answer, who will walk out forlornly, hesitant, out of its closet and face you. With every steady tick of the clock, things will get better. For the mind will start taking control, and not the heart.

I can tell you, it will one day, be okay. You can read an ornamental adage about how its better to laugh now, since you will laugh about it later, anyways. One day, over a cup of coffee in a quaint little cafe,  a curtain of old memories will drop, silkily in front of you. And looking at the slightly faded, fluid memories, all you will do is smile a bit, laugh a bit. But not now, never now.

Its how we are, how we are built. I can scream at you, I can force you, I can point out harsh truths to you. But until, you really wish to see it, you will not.You will still mourn a happiness that has now left you, not willing to believe that there exists something better.

Your body will live. Like a trained acrobat, it will do its daily routine, for every action has been tattooed in it. But your heart will remain drooping and wilted, till you seek to water it once again, till you have the courage to let go, and look ahead, be kind enough to let your heart l live, to breathe.

Its time, its all about time.

Time makes it easier for us to look back, then to look ahead. Looking back now, at the way, I had once crucified myself with unhappiness, I cannot recall the actual pangs and actual sudden coiling of the intestines, or how my heart fluttered like a bird about to be slaughtered.  The way my body spasmed. I cannot recall those feelings, for they existed for those moments of time. I am better now, healing, living, happy. But, that time, I did not believe that I could ever be whole again. That life could ever be sorted. That things will always be a tiring mess. But here I am, cartwheeling in time, a little better every day.

So, all I can say is, if nothing else, have faith in Time. For better or worse, these things, shall pass.  The pain wont be felt, it will be vaguely remembered. The heart wont be just living, but will actually be alive.

I also believe, that we are special, not because of our talents, its because of our experiences that we gather.

For a beautiful baby.

Her eyes, oh her eyes! Diaphanous pools of white with pupils melted grey, kisses of emerald gurgling around them. Her skin looks like pink butter. Like as if,a tiny-toed elf had chomped in a luscious strawberry and the decided to blow minty streams of raspberry under her skin. Tiny twirls,that floated above to fuse together to form a glorious flush of pink. Oh and please look at her lips! A rosebud, tiny. A rosebud of shy crimson, supple and arched in a faint happy smile.The same elf must have flitted across glimmering fields of emerald grass and stumbling upon a shy, red bloom in the forest of green, must have picked it up and fashioned it for her lips. Her nose was like a button. I so want to touch her, feel the powdery softness of her skin. Sigh. And look at the darling's hair! Clipped and tied up in a cute ribbon of yellow, tiny black strands fashioned into bonsai palm tree. That picture of her, frozen in time, alive and shimmering in innocence. If only, if only, she was mine! 

Of a dream recalled yet unwritten.

She woke up, with a start. Her skin was cool, like the grey rocks,that sit on the wet ochre sands and let the frivolous waters wash over them. But the dreams had stired her placid blood into a furious, savage rage, that gushed wildly throughout her twenties body, screaming to come out, infuriated that it couldnt and gnawing like a piranha at the yellow epidermal that contained it. Her heart was pulsing wildy, needling a painful tatoo on her chest."STOP. STOP HEART, STOP!". Stupid heart, meek lamb by day, a tigress at night. What was the dream all about, that her heart was so being so primitive and carnal? Puzzled, annoyed and a little frantic, she tried to recollect and piece together her dream before her body tuned to total consciousness and shredded the last lingering effects of it.

The night before. 

Yes, the night. She remembered the crafty night of the yesterday, it had seemed like a butter-fingered artist's painting. Corpulent drops of black all over the canvas-Plop,Plop,Plop. Some hastily painted thumbprints of yellow and white added as an after-thought. She remembered coming into her room tired with the daily diatribe of emotions. She rememberd changing into her blue-pink boxers, she rememberd switching on the laptop. She remembered selecting Cold-Play, she remembered  pulling out the black plastic packet from her pink  bag. She remembered switching of her lights to soak her room, only with the purple that was streaming through her open window. She remembered sitting down on her bed, cross legged, pouring a little bit of that vitrolic liquid in her steel glass. Green Apple Vodka, the bottle read. For safety's sake, she let a little bit of Sprite splink in too. 

The first taste, she remembered. Like licking metal.Or corroded iron. Nauseatingly sweet. The scrunching up of her little r eyes, the puckering of her little nose.  ColdPlay picked up on the frenzy, as if on cue. Their beats were pure, and it prickled your nose,  a portrait of planes out of symmetry, a disturbingly pretty picture.She remembered starting to hum those haunting lyrics that had started  rushing around in little black strings of air around her head, meshing and fusing. She remembered wanting to fly, even though there was a minisicule rivulet down one cheek. After that things got vague, the reminiscing became difficult. Falling on the floor, throwing the phone, wanting to bang her head to smithereens, amplified hate, amplified heartache. Clothes sliding off, sleep, waking up,sleep. But, the dream, she could not bring back her dream! 

"Forget,Bloody dream, bloody heart". She looked around, meekly, surreiptiously, eyes seeking the vestiges of the night.  She looked like a drunk lady who spends an amorous night at an exotic stranger's bed and wakes up to a terrifying conscience, puzzling memories and an ordinary, not so glamorous self.The sulphurous smell of alcohol still hung around her room, like a bored bumblee bee. The  glass lay like a martyr on her tiled floor, the sunlight spilled like butter through her sturdy bottle of Vodka.One of her paper butterflies lay balefully on the ground, did she rip that poor thing from the wall ? Eeukh,and her tongue felt like sandpaper- a fertile pink land for sowing maybe those abrasive pine cones? Another passionate night of alcohol. Another lousy day of yet another hangover. She thrashed around for her bottle of mineral water, her body thirsty. Gulp. Gulp. GULP. Her feet dug in lazily into her blankets, legs stretched, toes outstretched, till the she could feel the curious tingling on her left toe. She tossed her pillow on the side, 

She rubbed her eyes, her fingers, gently removing her the caked up discharge at the corners. Her eyes sweeped arcs across her blue painted room,resting finally at the table on the corner. And then she remembered, her dream. It wasnt a dream at all, it was a living, hammering nightmare. 

Of Life, and its weird truths.

So, I was running. I was fleeing. I did not know where, but I was running, mercilessly pushing every ounce of my body away from all these disquieting, eerie things.Panic driven, assaulted by a  fear that was pulsing inside me, reeking around me, my mind delirious, consumed with terrifying thoughts.Delirious, distraught, deranged.  


I was running away. Everything around me, was a hoary blur. People, relationships, things. I cared for none, for they all scared me. I downed bottles of hate, I bathed in nothing but self-loathe. I felt like a cage of sharp, macabre blades were closing in on me, from all sides. Their steely faces glinting with malicious humor; a cruel cold mirthless laughter. It would hurt, I knew. So I ran. I bundled up nothing, and I ran. Heated, hurried rush- I ran. Wildly, madly, arms flailing, hair streaming in dirty torrents, eyes verbose with barely suppressed terror, I ran. Over shards of bitter truth, over scarring accusations, I ran. Over burgeoning , painful guilt, I ran. I dint look forward, I turned tremulous, agitated eyes behind, looking at the things that were scaring me, closing in on me, menacingly, and I RAN.

I ran, yes I ran.

And I ran right into your arms. The fear of my past fueled my speed, I ran, I ran. Right into my present.Into your strong saving arms.

So thats the thing about life. It drives you insane, it makes you run away. But what you are now cursing, you never know. What you hate and what you loathe now and wish it did not happen-you might just be glad that it did. Cuz, that made you run, yes it made you run. But,t might b

XXe the one, that drives you straight into the welcoming arms of your happiness.


'M'

Of something Happy.

 I thought Ill write this for you, taking comfort and a merry mischief in the fact that you will not be reading this. I actually do not mind you reading this, heck I guess Ill pass this link to you in due time. Thats, the way I am. Excitement does not bubble inside me, it grows centipede feet all across my toes that tickle and tingle and torture exquisitely. But yes, you will probably never stumble upon this on your own.

 Why? Because your way too lazy. Your this cute lazy crocodile, who loves to roll himself up in the chocolate coolness of mud, basking in the comatose of the afternoon heat, and the drowsy acoustic of insects at work. I can imagine you now- long hands and long legs, stretched out in an indolent drawl across your yellow bedspread. Your head's cosily cushioned and pillowed into that happy, fat bolster of yours, your arms hugging and cuddling them comfortably. You look so snug. Burrowed and nestled in your pudding of spongy, plump bolsters,your head digging more and more into its dimpled softness. Croodling in your comfortable cocoon. But you are not languid, no. Your eyes have an intelligent flicker to them, you have a perception about things. Its just that, you like to wrap yourself up in the nectarous feel of a Sunday morning. Of waking up late, in a room that is deliciously cool and the terror of the sun tamed to a coy glow inside it. And I adore you like that. A toddler, you are. Keep sleeping, keep hugging :)


I like your voice. Nay, I love it. I love the richness of your accent, the strength in your baritones. Talking to you, I inadverdently arch into my favorite fetal position. The phone pressed against my ear, me pressed against my bed. Legs curled up, knees almost touching my chin. Fingers clutching my mink blanket and I dive deeper and deeper into the recesses of my furry fort, letting your words hover around me, so strong and warm and loving and caring and protecting.

Its how you gently tease me. I feel like a newborn, who is being cooed and crooned, crowing happily, staring at the butterflies revolving around her bassinet. I feel like a baby, I want like a baby, I need like a baby now. When you call out to me, our favorite endearment, my nose crinkles and my eyes crinkle more with unbridled delight. I feel like nosying up to you. I feel like clapping my hands, and jump do a merry little pitter patter on my toes.I have not laughed the way, I laugh with you, so carefree.I feel like a happy child, wrapped in your arms. And oh-my-god, I feel so safe! So secure, its a haven. The world might be bad, but now that I see it, plopped on your lap, it does not feel so scary anymore.


I respect you. Oh, like hell I do. Your mind is a pot-pourri of thoughts and worries but, you still take out time for me. I respect the grace, your beliefs. You stand out. You've probably met a lot like me, but Ive met just one like you. Thats you. You have a power in you, and that exudes from you. Your a mesh of positivity, a bundle of good thoughts. It radiates, and plunges ahead, effortlessly. And I like being in its happy mist. Your matured, your not an imbecile. You do not rave after mindless guy dreams and fantasies, and even if you have to  you talk about them in a low, exciting baritone. I like it, its refreshing. Like mint spray on a hot day.Thats class,thats also decent.I doubt a lot of things in life, but I do not doubt the fact that you will one day be on the top. The pinnacle that you have dreamed of.


Your also a big jerk when it comes to punking me. Not likes, no. Such a poker face you have, when you recite those beautifully concocted  
stories, and make me fall for them. But I promise, one day, Ill punk in a way, that will shock the living guts out of you.

I think Ill stop now. I will soon turn very nauseating and I think I should start studying. High time.

XX

'M'

The Sights and Sounds of a Shopping Expedition (Alone)

                              Its that rush you get, when you first enter through the glass doors. That first step and that first gentle waterfall of frozen air that slides over every part of exposed skin. You stand, a queen. You stand, a kid- eyes bulbous and bright at the outstretched fairyland of goodies. Calligraphic writings that spell out expensive words, mannequins with frozen faces and in seductive fabrics. Their hands outstretched, their marble fingers beckoning towards you. There is something grand about every store in front of you, liquid with mirrors cascading here and there, till there are a million amalgamated reflections of humans and color. Indiscernible but heady. A frisson of excitement runs through you, grows inside you. Where to start from ? Which goodies to first select, to tease the visual senses? 


You enter the 1st store. You walk in through the electronic gate. Huge, airy, spacious. There are rows and rows of billowing fabric and stiff denims in front of you. Metal aisles and wooden frames. Embossed hangers and the hanging clothes. One row of brown, different hues of it. A little ocher, a little somber, a little rusty, a little autumn, a little casual, a little earthy. You walk up to the first collection of the rust colored cloth.Brown dresses, with an trail of white flowers  bunched together likes whipped cream,weeping along the shoulders. Slit up to the knee, a tiny white button fixed on the top.Marked in all sizes, XS, S,M,L,XL. You touch one of them, and let the satin slither through your fingers, marveling at the delicate touch. You rub it between your fingers, incredulous. How soft it felt! If the fabric were words, it would have been gentle murmurs, collected together. The smell of expensive clothes, you sniff in that sterilized, blot-less, smell.


You advance, row after row after row, color after color. Here and there, on the clean blue wall-paper, majestic portraits of anorexic models staring down at you.Sculpted bodies, enamel skin, smoky eyes. An erotic pout of lips, of seductive words unsaid. Wearing clothes, that clung like a needy child to their perfect contours of womanhood. Provocative heels,that supported long parted legs, spread across a bed. The yellow never looked so better, the pink of the shorts never looked so amazing like it did on the super model, looking down at you.


The assistants lurk around like sharks- catering to the woman carrying a Gucci, then to you in your faded slippers, messed hair and an orange cloth sling. You hate the way, they have a polite disdain around you, and how they rush in practiced haste to smooth the clothes you have picked up, like reassuring a frightened child. They all wear matching shirts that have the name of the store needled in cursive across their chests. They all have a well-taught smile, of cold civility curving their lips. You hate the way, that smile warms up with abundant praises and puppy like servility to the rich class. How they run behind that fat,rich woman in shorts, her rich flaccid thighs wobbling with every step that she takes in her Zara slippers, and the CK glares that pushed her lusty black hair behind. 


But you still walk around, have fun. Pick up a piece and sigh and swoon over the soigne look it imparted. You stand in front of the huge mirrors.Ceiling to floor. Lighted in a way, that it makes your skin look pearly, the acne faded. Your legs look longer, you arms look thinner, and you can almost see yourself as one of those snotty perfect models. You place the dress over your mix-matched outfit of harems and teeshirt, and wonder at your reflection. How classy you look! 




                              The next store seemed like an explosion of Spring.A riot of lace, frills, gauze. The fabric was more shimmery here, more of life. Sylphlike.Frothy frills of pink and abundance of peach thrown around everywhere, that it delights your heart. There are skirts with hems of tulle, and shirts with pretty, spring flowers dotting them. Carefree blue denims hung from the walls. It seemed like spring had rained its choicest collection of warm, summer colors all over. Even the black looked coy and colorful. Hair-bands with satin flowers and chains with magical charms dangling from them. Belts with a fusion of hearts studding them, ornaments in  fuchsia. The lighting is of muted gold, and fountains of yellow light focus on every part of the room. Twinkling wind-chimes of interleaved silver strands and tiny bells dotted the ceiling. Here and there, a golden butterfly sat glazed on the white shelves. 

You stare around, a mist of pinks, whites and purples, feeling beautiful and girly. You walk up to the wispy dress in white, with the white lace sleeves. one finger slides up- cotton and life and summer it feels. For a moment, you are transported to a orgy of sweating people in sinister colors of black and grey. The kohl, lined dark, the lips bruised with red. Their bodies grazing, touching, pressing,with every pulse of the electric sound rumbling through the speakers. Moving dirty, alcohol drenched. Women aroused, breasts heaving,cleavage wet, hips alternating from side to side. Eyes closed, body and bones moving serpentine, sweat trickling down fake-brown skin. A fevered guy, his eyes on her, his hands on her sticky waist, his hips sticking to her gyrating ones, shirt unbuttoned.Everyone dazed and drunk and sex-starved. You can envision yourself, the cotton kissing your cool skin, the white glowing, people staring as you walk in, in nude make-up, in your white dress. Just a drop of sliver on the ears, and glistening lips. The one virginal beauty amongst the crazed animals. The eyes focus on your lithe movements, the lace demurely hiding your bare skin, the skirt of the dress showing shy glimpses of soft under thigh. A vision in white. You come out of the trance, for your eyes had casually drifted to the price and it had jolted you into rude awakening.

So much ! It was almost your weekly spendings! Your face falls, you decide to move on to the next row of strawberry tee-shirts. Suddenly the tiny tribal girl, the store assistant comes up and whispers the magic word to you. "Ma'am, its on a 70%sale". Oh the joy! Oh the joy of a sale! You quickly slide the dress off its hanger and rush into the waiting room. No doors, just separate rooms with rich,velvet curtains of red. You size up the other girls in line. A college going student with her chattering friend. An aloof married lady.
Your turn comes, you get into the room, put the curtain firmly in place. You slid out of your attire. The trial room magnifies all your flaws, that cut on your back looked hideous, and the little bit of un-waxed skin looked like a hairy bear. Multiple reflections of your crowding and mutely screaming at you. You hurriedly slide the dress in. And stare at your multiple selves. Just about perfect! 

10 mins later, you walk out happy out of the store, a proud owner of a beautiful dress. A dizzy ecstasy as the store lady swiped your card across the machine and euphoria as the dress became legally yours. You clutch onto to your paper bag  protectively, aware of the looks of the other girls on your bag. And more on the name flung across it. A weird sense of pride. A weird urge to boast and be content in being vain.


The other stores beg out to you, but you are tired. You stand on the escalator and let the moving grey steps, take you to the food court. You are still aware of the numerous eyes on you, it almost tingles your skin to goosebumps. A cute guy with a mop of black fringes, looks down at you from the 3rd floor. You resist the urge to smile and be content with just giving him a piercing look. His eyes follows you, till you disappear. You have reached the merry medley of eating joints.


I need to write more, but I am tired. Its 6am :) Ill continue again.

Have a merry Monday :) 

XOXO

'M'

Parental Issues of a Twenty Something.

The green pullover that he had put on hung loosely along his body contours. A crease here, an indefinite line along the arm. There was a cocky look to the gaudy yellow emblem that sat brazenly on his left chest. Autistic canary lines, ran havoc and snarled within the confined space of the black needled box. A thin, chain of melded gold, clung possesive and serpentine along his stout neck. His hair was messy and forced to stand at different angles- thick clumps of frozen mud thrusting in diifferent directions.  His eyes played a tennis match, with every person who creaked the door open- seeking,sneaking, appraising, appreciating, bullshitting, seeking again. From afar, he was the average 20 year old, with the average dreams , the average hormonal pulses and average habit of sitting in a coffee shop of purple blushes and plush browns- a porcelain cup of steaming java, sitting happy in front of him. 

She came into the cafe, her hands clutching bags of pink and yellow, her scarlet nails clashing horribly against the neon plastics. A teenage smile of confidence danced on her lips. She was light toned, a pale river of pink gurgled pleasantly along the plump apple of her cheeks. But the sun made an ugly brew of frozen sweat and grime and slapped it on her face so that it now looked dull and dirty brown. The kajal was smudged, her eyes were tired. Tired but happy.Long limpid tired strands stuck like glue on her forehead, a little drizzle of dandruff beaded her scrunched up bun. 

She walked up to him and playfully knocked on his skull, and placed the bags lovingly onto the chair next to him. "Whatsup dude?" , she drawled lazily, pulling the chair put with an exaggerative sigh. "Hows the chick flick going?", she winked. There was a life to her voice, a frizzy,effervescent feel to it. Like an exultant chord that was struck hours back, but still hovered delightfully in the air, permeating and pervading. He looked up, mock exasperation plucking his eyebrows to an admonishing arch. " So much shopping?! Are you on a Dad looting spree? ". " Dude!Look what I got and then do that scream! "- she picked up one of the  pink polythene  and thrust them under his nose. Squished inside was something tiny and yellow, smelling new- the efficient smell of efficient manufacturing. He put a hand in, and gingerly picked the fabric out.

"This?What is this!" His face screwed up in visible agony as he stared at the pair of yellow shorts. 

"Hot pants, dude, hot pants. Dont you think, ill totally look so hot in them"?

He stared at her. His little sister. 16 and growing. Slightly more taller, the arms of her tee shirt getting smaller. A visible curve of womanhood against her top. The lingerie hanging dry in the bathroom had become daintier.From soft toys, she had graduated to silent fits of giggles while reading late night messages. A defiant look at him when he would question her about it, from the adjoining bed. From  g lugging strawberry milkshakes in patterned plastic cups, she had taken to munching a wad of gum, as she would softly enter the house. And wink at him, and whisper about the fruity, cold bottle of crane-berry breezer, she had just downed. The hair styles were more elaborate, the visits to the parlor were longer. Her ear lobes were a blur of metal and color, so much for the simple gold loops she once wore. Multicolored vials of liquid lay strewn on the dresser, and every day, there seemed to be a new pileup of skin lightening lotions, anti-tanning creams, balmy moisturizers. Every morning, before she dashed off to school, she would smooth every part of visible skin with dollops and scoops of the creams,leaving behind a spicy, tangerine , fruity smell  floating in the room like a dazed, confounded poltergeist. Cutouts of well oiled, brawny men were pasted in random order over her bed. The school skirt was hitched a little higher, the folds dancing wickedly around her waxed thighs, the distressed skin still a little red and sore. The Enid Blytons had gathered dust, sitting balefully on the table. The new, jazzy Sidney Sheldon's with the earnest dog-eared pages lay under her pillow now. Her walk was more winsome now, her talks included guys, and her facebook wall has postings of lil black hearts from equally enthusiastic teenage friends. 

How did this happen? He was supposed to be the brother! The one who she fought with! The one who dint give a damn to how his sister live d her life, to how she dressed! The one who dominated her. The insouciant brother. The one who carelessly sprawled himself on the sofa and watched the football matches. The one, who would enter dimly lit cheap bars and drag on the stick, watching its tiny golden lava, burn down the paper. The back slapping with friends, the new experiments. The weed, taken in slowly, the heavy perfume, the drugged somnolence. The promise at the back of his mind, the promise that he would never smoke. The promise,faded and dull and deliberately forgotten. The college bunks, the proxies. The guy who made sure people did not attend classes, heralding the shyly rebellious toppers, and the eager bunkers, out of the dull classroom. The guy who would sneak in a fag inside the bathroom, and watch the wily curls of smoke dance sensuously in front of him. And of course the girls. The girls and the girl friends and the commitment phobias.

Girls, those girls. The girl of seven years. The one who described him a future so vivid, that it caged him, scared him. The one who drew a boundary to his dreams. The one he left, for he needed to explore and experiment and experience. The one he left, for she scared him. Scared him, by the names of the kid she had already decided, the house with its garlands of redolent tuber vines, that they were going to live in. Their 25th marriage anniversary, the people whom they were going to invite to witness, their silver years of marriage. The surety of the life she gave him terrified him. He knew, that there would be a breakfast of cold cereal every morning at 7am. But what if he wanted eggs, sunny side up? Then what? Would the definite lines that held them together, die away? He ran away from her.

The blur of girls and their whims and their bodies and the wooings after that. The same pattern of asking for the number, sweet nothings to whisper, sweeter ways to nibble. hose dates, how he smirked at their flushed faces and appreciated the gentle swell of their bosom. The girls he took in, had a good time with, and he walked away from, for their predictable natures bored  him.