Oceans

I like the Ocean. It Understands. It’s deep in places, shallow in others. When it is shallow, all you see are the pretty colourful things and the twinkling light bouncing off the happy blue-green water. There’s an occasional shark lurking in the shallows, but we don't see it. We never see the shark until it’s too late. All we see is the cheerfulness and the white foamy waves crashing joyfully on to the beach. Over and over and over and over and over again.

Just like a big happy person. Always madly on the move, cheerful, and smiling. Making the whole world laugh and fall in love with their goofiness. The shark is usually around too. It always is, but we chose to ignore it. Like we always do.

The ocean is calm.

It just lays there vast and blue-green. With seemingly nothing and no one troubling it. It lays there calm and still and goes with the flow. Still twinkling, still cheerful. Still hiding a whole lot more than it shows or people think they can see.

The ocean is confident.

It is proud. Dignified and majestic in its glory. No one trifles with it or underestimates it. Most people are more than a little afraid of it. It is huge and mysterious. And no one is ever quite sure how it will behave. It may be calm and welcoming on the surface, but sometimes people sense the darkness it hides. Or are uncertain and therefore as it is human nature, dismiss what they cannot understand. Or they go in search of a safer and prettier lake or river. The ocean is too independent. Too wild. Too raw. Too unpredictable.

No one can see the bottom of the deep dark, dark places of the ocean. That’s where all the horrors live. All the fish with the million sharp teeth, blind milky eyes and their own fish light on their faces. Fish that can bite you in half or eat you whole. There are some rather sick I feel, and curious people who venture into those depths. There’s always some of those. Always at least one. Everywhere. They must know what is down there.

Just like there are people who must know what is inside someone, what makes them tick as it were. Most people couldn't care less. And are happy with the shallow, pretty, non-messy parts. They couldn't possibly be deeper than this, they feel. They tell anyone their life's story the first time they meet them. They wear their hearts on their sleeves. I’ve seen all there is to be seen and more than I probably needed to. They couldn't possibly contain anything more in them! All there is to see is the sunshine smile twinkling off their eternally cheerful faces.

Just like the ocean.

Not many people are morbid enough to check. And just because they check, they are not guaranteed answers. The darkness is too black and deep, and there will always be secrets. One person may discover one, two, three or maybe quite a lot. Another may discover a few more. But there will always be secrets the ocean holds to itself. People might guess what they are, they may not. But the secrets will still be there. Deep, dark and more than a little frightening.

The ocean changes.

In the blink of an eye, the happy smiley twinkly water can grow dark and sullen. It doesn't often do that. But the fury of the ocean has few to compare to. Its sadness and rage comes and goes. And most of its despair and uncertainty is hidden. Most of us never know the anger of the waves far away from the shore. Again, there are people who have witnessed it. Who have died or worse lived to tell the tale. But most of us are lucky enough to witness just one storm on the ocean our whole lives. And we never see beyond its calm, twinkly, peaceful fun-ness.

But I like the Ocean. It Understands. It Was. It Is. and It Will Endure.

Editing

It’s been a while since I last wrote anything. That’s probably because I now spend my days correcting what other people have written as opposed to writing things myself. As someone who likes to write and hates having my work messed with, I sometimes wonder how people can allow me to do my job and not try to push me out of a window of the 36th floor, or down the elevator shaft, or strangle me with the hoser eel (it's hose reel but all the letters run together on the sign so I always read it Hoser Eel). I imagine a hoser eel would be this large rubbery looking eel that spits high pressured water at potential predators, or just at people it doesn't like. It would be fun if such a creature did exist. All the villagers would run screaming, "The hoser eel! The hoser eel! Beware of the hoser eel!!!” But back to why no one has tried to kill me for messing with their work yet, perhaps it’s all the cameras. Maybe I’m cuddly. I’m not entirely sure really. All I know is that I wouldn't like some insufferable know-it-all (I learnt that hyphens are important, and that commas though also important, must not be used much) messing around with my masterpiece.

It’s a funny thing, is editing. I never knew how important a simple colon or an N dash can be. Gone are the days when I could wonder into where ever I worked or studied all blurry and sleepy from being on the internet for too long or hung over from a night of excesses. Students don't mind it if their teacher is sleepy first thing in the morning. They are sleepy too. So the sleepier the teacher the better, they can get away with murder and not get noticed or yelled at. This is not to say that I slept through classes, but I have on occasion been known to use some pretty strange examples when teaching. Blame the alcohol, or the internet, or the lack of sleep, or my own strange coconut, whatever floats your boat. No one can say I wasn't entertaining. And that's a hard thing to be at 8 am on a Monday morning.

But not now. Not anymore. No. now I have to concentrate or God forbid I might miss a semi colon and cause the end of the world as we all know it. Financially speaking anyway. I might miss that the logic in a sentence is all wrong and get someone fired. (Ok. not fired, but yelled at. or worse, emailed at.) So I have to get my eight hours or else. I find myself turning down free drinks in the name of clear headedness the next day. And staying home on weekends, so I can be all clear eyed and bushy tailed, and ready to edit like an editor on Monday. The worst thing is I decide this on FRIDAY. I now rank work above partying. Oh how the mighty have fallen!

Ok. It’s not that bad. I’m a drama queen. It’s one of my many appealing qualities. I actually really like my job, but I feel I must moan a bit about it to show willing. When everything's been said and done, where else would I get to tell people that they have done something ALL WRONG and boss them around and make them change their masterpieces and get paid for being an insufferable smug woman? It’s brilliant I tell you. Brilliant! I do things with Microsoft word that normal people could never ever dream of doing in a million, billion, trillion years. It is my dog of a female persuasion that occasionally pees on the rug and looks remorseful! PowerPoint and Excel shudder in my editorial wake! Analysts are pushed to the point of screaming for I am a Queen of the word!!!!  I have landed the job of a lifetime! It rocks and rules and hyphenates! Now if I can only figure out where to put that bloody comma, my life would be perfect!

A Note on Hard Goodbyes

Goodbyes are hard on everyone. Most of all on the goodbyeee, i.e. the person who has to say goodbye, who in this case happens to be me. It’s been a tough couple of months for me. Filled with more goodbyes that I possibly thought could be contained in the few months that went by just there. I've said quite a few goodbyes in my life, but this one I think is the hardest one yet. It’s so hard that I’m finding it impossible to write about it. I just don't have the words to express everything that I am feeling, and that for me is unusual. ask anyone who has known me even for a short time, words are something I’m usually NEVER in short supply of, You all know this about me personally too. But this time, I've been thinking about this post for days. Days! And I still have no idea what to say. I’m writing in the hopes that my typing fingers know what to say even if my brain doesn't.

It bugs me really. Not knowing what to say.

How do I say goodbye to the people who I have worked with for three whole years, who have accepted me and loved me just for being me. Who have laughed at my stupid jokes and cheered me up and who for the most part have saved my life? when I started working over here, I had just gone through darkest patch ever in my life, and the people who started off as my colleagues, became my friends and finally my second family, pulled me out of the funk I was in, and they did it so seamlessly and caught me so unawares that I didn't know I was all better until I was. 

How can I tell them that even as I write this part of me is screaming, STAY! STAY WITH THEM! Stay where I’m happy and it is safe, warm and comfortable. how can I put to words how much having to leave is tearing me apart and I wish more than ever that I can split apart like a starfish, or was it a sea worm, that turns into two when cut in half, and have one of me stay while the other me goes. Even though I can’t do that, I leave a part of my heart with them. and I have to say my heart is getting pretty small because I keep leaving bits and pieces all over, whether they are wanted or not.

Like I said Goodbyes are hard for me. I’m one of those clingy people who gets attached easily. And it breaks my heart a little bit more every time someone I care about leaves me.

This time however I’m the one who is leaving. And my heart is shattered. I lost two people I held in my heart for the better part of a decade and my heart hurt so much it started to wobble a bit in its place, a friend sang me a song and my heart cracked, I had a farewell lunch at work some days ago and my heart crumbled with the shock of doing something I never thought I would do, I had to give away the last of Cookie's puppies today, and that shattered my heart a little bit more. I have to leave my home of twenty eight years, and the people that I love most in the world for good in a few more days, and I don't know if my cracked and broken heart can take the strain. 

And I still have to do my parting "speech" at work. Forgive me if I can’t say the words, because honestly, I don't think I can. So I’m writing this instead, to tell you all how much you mean to me. How much you have changed and shaped me. I will miss you ALL more than words can possibly convey.

I love you all. You are the sisters I never had. I will hold you in my heart and take you with me where ever I go. Thank you for all the Memories.

Somebody that I Used to Know

The boy in the picture
is someone
I used to know
he was beautiful
he was young
he was fun 
my sun
my moon
my starlit sky
my Love, my Life, my Heart.
The boy in the picture
is no more
we are old
and the world moved
and turned
and moved again.
The world is old
and cold
and wide and alone
and The boy in the picture
is no more
he has changed
and is now
Strange
to me.
and I am
Strange
to him.
no longer alive
no longer fun 
my sun
just a boy
someone I used to know
someone I used to Love
a long long
time ago.

Procrastination

I

don't

like

to

study

so

I waste

my 

time

with
story books

noodles

Clark Kent

random TV shows

random poetry

random

random

lines 

lines

lines

of nothing.

Death

A fat mosquito
full of my life
sits serenely on
its perch
till a clap
splatters it
all over the cloth
in a 
bright red 
berry blood
smear.

Father's Day

Since today is Father's Day, I got to thinking about fathers. They say that every little girl's first ever hero is their father. In my case, I didn't really get to see mine much when I was growing up. My dad worked in the Middle East when I was a kid and I got to see him for about a month or so twice a year. I remember I used to have one of these huge zip-up plastic closet things. Basically, it was a closet which you could zip up. I remember hiding in it when my dad finally got back from where ever hot sandy place he was and he used to always search for me, saying 'Where's my girl? Where is my baby?' I used to be so thrilled when he finally ‘found’ me, and then follow him around like a puppy the rest of the time he was here. I also remember camping out in my uncles car when it came time for my dad to leave again, resolutely stating that either he stay with me or take me with him. I always fell asleep and he would be gone when I woke up. Always. One of the happiest memories I have of my father is the day he finally left the sand dunes and came back home for good and I got to show him my new brother. He brought me grapes. Of two colours. And Pepsi, Mirinda and Sprite in cans. And he told me he'd never leave again. I was happier than I can ever remember.

My dad isn't into large outward shows of emotion. He’s usually quite gruff and loud and yells at absolutely EVERYONE. Me, my mom, the dogs, the people he works with, random people on the street, basically, Everyone. That’s just the way he is. He yells. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us. He does. With everything that he is. Coming back to the whole hero thing. My dad is my hero because he broke the windscreen of our old Volkswagen with his bare fist to get us out when we met with an accident and the car flipped over. I know he did it. I saw him do it. Not many people can say their dad crawled over broken glass to make sure that they were o.k. That’s the day that I knew that no matter how gruff and anti-hug my dad is, he loves us more than he loves himself.

The first time I saw my father cry was in India. When he was faced with the prospect of having to leave me by myself far away from where he could keep an eye on me. I was bawling my head off, and he didn't bawl with me. Not really. No big emotional displays from him. But his eyes filled with tears and he told me, stick it out for a year. And if I hated it, I could come home. Money be damned. I stayed all three years. Got my degree too. All the while, I had him at the back of my mind saying, 'come home if you hate it. Money be damned' he worked all his life for the money he spent on my uni. But he said 'come home. Money be damned' he loves me that much.

The second time he cried, he was in pain. He had a kidney stone and it hurt him very, very badly. That’s the day that I found out that even heroes are not invincible. And that even heroes hurt sometimes. And it got me thinking about how much hurt he must have gone through, those years in the sandy desert without us, when he got all those stitches on his arm after he punched through the car windscreen, when he saw the people he loved leave him and pass on. He never showed it. Not a glimmer of pain. He was always our superman. Bullet-proof and made of tougher stuff than Adamantium. The person we could run to with the absolute belief that he would always, always protect us.

So thank you father, dad, thaththa. You have been all of those things and as cliché as this sounds, you have always been my superman (but with less mild manners and more yelling). We were born on the same date. So as amma says, I am your living breathing birthday present. But she forgets to mention that I too have a living breathing birthday present. Someone who has loved me and watched over me since the day I was born, someone who I can always count on, You. What more can a girl ask for?

For You

I came across this quote by Johnny Depp during one of my many random readings. he says “If someone were to harm my family or a friend or somebody I love, I would eat them. I might end up in jail for 500 years, but I would eat them.” I feel the same way. there is nothing I would not do to keep the people I love safe.

For You
I'd leave the world behind.
I'd sell my soul,
for Your life.
I'd watch all of my senses die.
I'd burn the whole world
and Never more know Love,
just to see you smile.
I would die
just so You can live
and be free,
and take all of Your hurt
deep inside of me.
rip out my heart
and give it away for free,
just to know that
You will always know Joy
and not sorrow.
You will never more know
pain.
or be hurt again.
for You
I will lose myself
for evermore.
just to keep You safe.

Bad Poetry

I realized that I used to write a lot of poetry and hardly any prose, but now I'm starting to realize that things have changed. I rarely write poetry anymore and I wondered why. Now I know.

I can't write bad poetry

no more.

all my thoughts

locked up in my head

so tight so tight

and I threw away the key

sometime ago sometime sometime ago

and I can't write poetry

no more.

the words refuse to flow

they wont go

where I want them to 

or show

what I want them to show

what's deep inside my mind

anymore

I can't write love poetry

no more.

the soft turn of phrase

that I need to say

Baby I LOVE You

be mine Forever

is gone

locked in the brain box

and I threw away the key

short time ago short short time ago

I can't write hate poetry

no more.

I can't say you Bastard you Ruined my life

I Hate You I Hate You

SCUM

my able sharpness is gone

my soul song is gone

locked in the mind box

and I threw away the key

long ago long long ago

and I don't can't won't

write bad poetry

no more.

Minions. A.K.A Shashi’s Evil Overlord List

Minions. They’re not an essential requirement for someone like me, but darkness knows they’re useful. In fact, many of our kind depend on having a decent posse of minions to take care of their dirty work, to take the fall for their evil deeds, and/or to be experimented upon. But like any other sort of raw material, they come in a wide variety of qualities, shapes, and sizes. And as always, some are more suited to the task at hand than others. Therefore, it is a very serious life decision to decide whether or not to put yourself and your empire in the rather grubby hands of a lowly minion. So you ask, what sort of qualities does a good minion need?

First and foremost is Loyalty. A good minion MUST be loyal. To ME. The important factor here is that a minion has to follow ME. Not my partner. Not my buddy. Not my dog (though that may at times be more tempting), and definitely not some hero, who can imbue him with an insignificant moral compass that can one day be used to turn him against me. If the minion does not serve me wholeheartedly with all his mind, body, and soul, then either his priorities need to be straightened out, or he needs to be permanently terminated and removed from his position. Because if he can be turned against me, anything I've trusted him with is going to go against me too. So I demand absolute control over their teeny tiny little brains! 

Next is Survivability. No, I do not mean serviceability! I maybe a few ants short of a picnic, but I know the difference between the two words!  Sure, I can just replace them, but that means finding and training the new minions, fitting them for uniforms, having to worry about personnel shortages and/or difficulties with finding cheap labor. I also have to deal with the general decreases in morale due to the a) constant losses at the hands of the heroes, b) the fact that either the numbers are changing every "incident" or c) I’m getting cases where number 152 has seniority over number 3 because I hired him 5 minutes before, for the simple reason that I needed to fill in the gaps left by those who came (and went) before them.  But if my minions are tough and difficult to kill, not only do I not have to worry about replacing them, but hopefully they will come back with some useful information, possibly learn from their mistakes (I wouldn't count on it, though), and maybe even lull the heroes into overconfidence because they always seem to lose so miserably.

Then if possible, a minion must be competent and useful. (Though chaos knows that’s impossible! I know! I've looked in the darkest pits, on the tallest mountains and everywhere in between!! Good help is so hard to find!!!!!) If for instance a minion is supposed to be able to take on ten normal men at one go, I would also normally make sure they can also handle women, children, abnormal men, nonhuman species, things without concept of gender, shape, form etc, etc...  This would be a consideration in applicable sorts of contests of say, intimidation or general destruction, rather than being able to outwit them (because most minions I know aren't that gifted in the brains department). Basically, these creatures are supposed to be instrumental in carrying out my evil plans. If they can’t carry them out, why would I waste my valuable, albeit ill-gotten resources on them?

I also prefer my minions to be primarily accustomed to taking orders without asking too many questions. No one likes a lippy minion when they are trying to concentrate on a particularly fiddly dastardly deed. On the other hand, I cannot have minions who only have the brain capacity to follow orders, because they freeze up when acting on their own, and that’s just not pretty. Besides, minions with a few working brain cells in their heads tend to come in handy from time to time; I can steal their ideas, take the credit, and maybe even save my own skin when  the lowly minion turns out to be right. They also make good bait to put angry mobs off my trail, because they, the minions, can be torn apart and poked with pitchforks and all manner of murderous sharp objects that mobs may prefer, while I make good my escape. Therefore, I find followers in the I.Q range of 75-80% to be optimal. 

Finally, I do not settle for substandard minions! They break under stress, crack and disintegrate under pressure, slow me down, and generally make trying to execute an evil plan even more difficult than it would be otherwise. Scrupulous Standards are EVERYTHING to someone like me. So if YOU feel you fulfill my minionic requirements... please do not hesitate to apply. Great rewards (I offer no guarantees) await the members of my horde! Join me! Travel to exotic places. Meet new people! Kill them! It’s the minion’s life for YOU!

The Secret Caterpillar

Let me tell you a story. This story is not a very long story. Nor is it a short one. It is a sort of mediumy slightly longish possibly shorter than you think story about a caterpillar.  But why would you tell me a story about a caterpillar you ask? Well it’s not a story about just any caterpillar. It is a story about a secret caterpillar. But why is it a ‘secret caterpillar’ you ask? Why isn’t it a normal every day non secret possibly green caterpillar with fur you ask?  Well that’s because no one has ever told anyone a story about a secret caterpillar before. The reason being they are very, very, very secret and no one even knows what they look like! No one except me that is… because I am the only person in the whole wide world who has ever seen a secret caterpillar! It’s true I tell you! I am most certainly not lying. Why would I lie to you?

It all started one morning or maybe it was afternoon, or was it evening? I’m getting forgetful in my old age… but I am quite sure it was not so long ago that I was sitting in my granny’s garden watching her flowers grow. As you all know, flowers when they want to grow, take their own sweet time doing it. They sit there in their buds, not really doing much apart from flirting half heartedly with a passing bee and enjoying the sun on their faces, or in this case, the sun on their bums ( am I allowed to say bums I wonder?) but wait… I’m going off my point… I tend to ramble a bit in my old age. I was sitting quite still, watching the flowers grow, when I heard a slight scuffle, scuffle, dig, dig, snarff, dig, dig, snarff… under my grannies fattest leafiest plant… at first I thought it was the flowers giggling at an earthworm passing  wind deep underground… But no, the flowers were quiet and dozing in the sun.

So I decided to sit there and be still and quiet. I was going to be the kind of quiet that a mouse is when the cat is sitting by his door. As quiet as a little girl who is trying to fall asleep and hears the monster under her bed snore. I was going to be as still as every lost thing is when someone searching for it is near. I was going to be as still as a frog, waiting on a fly to fly past his nose.  I sat there, not moving and hardly breathing and trying hard to listen and concentrate, while the sun was warm the birds were too tired to yell… and the whole world was silent, holding its breath.

Then suddenly, oh so carefully, I saw a teeny tiny face poke carefully around the fattest root of the fattest leafiest plant in my grannies garden. I blinked and he was gone and I blinked again and he was back. A secret caterpillar! The first of his kind to ever be seen by a person, and that person was me! What is that you say? It couldn’t possibly be so? But it is true; I swear it on the slime of the snails, and the wag in my dog’s tails, the song in the breeze and a cat’s sneeze. There he was, with his furry little face, his 10 feet and 6 arms, his long yellowy orangey blue green body, squinting at me through caterpillar glasses. He was as surprised to see me, as I was to see him. I did tell you, they were very, very, secret so it was not a great big surprise that he had never seen a creature quite like me before.

We stared at each other, him with his black button caterpillar eyes through caterpillar glasses, me with my big brown girl eyes thorough the wind and the air. He looked at me up and down and seemed sad that I had only two hands and two legs. He seemed to think it was unfair that he had so many arms and legs when I had only two of each. He looked some more, and then squeaked what I took to be a caterpillar ‘Hello!’ so I waved and smiled because  I didn’t want to scare him with a loud booming girl ‘hello’. It was also very sad to know… sadder than a lost friend, sadder than a closed door, sadder even than a broken heart that I didn’t speak him and he didn’t speak me. He said something more in his small caterpillar voice and I smiled and nodded and he seemed pleased.

So we sat there, the secret caterpillar and I. He, munching quietly on the fattest leaf of the fattest plant in my granny’s garden, and me letting him do just that. It was a quiet day, a good day for dreams. A day when the bees took a nap and the medicine went down with no spoon of sugar. It was a long day, a warm day, a day for finding what is lost and losing what is found. Such days are rare and come along once in a cheese green moon, such are the days of the secret caterpillar. He left after his meal and walked down the plant, putting one caterpillar foot in front of the other. He looked back once nodding his furry face in the thoughtful way that caterpillars have, as he waved his third favorite arm at me. Then he was gone, like he never was there, like he was a dream, a memory of a story and a whisper in the wind.

I probably fell asleep you say? It was a dream you say? Just a story to make children laugh and adults smile and nod wisely you say? Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. It happened a long, long, time ago, or a short, short, time ago. I am old, forgive me, and forgetful.  And the days of the green cheese moon don’t come often.  My mind goes on its own long walks, and sometimes I wonder if I remember things right. I wonder if the colour of loneliness is purple and the colour of happiness is a bright dazzling blue. I wonder where lost friends go to be found. I wonder how to mend something that I don’t know how I broke. I wonder most of all if I am a girl with a memory and a story of a secret caterpillar, and if somewhere, somehow, I am the counter creature of a secret caterpillar with a memory and a story of a girl.

Pish you say? Apple tosh, tweezle and piffle for good measure? There’s no such thing as a secret caterpillar you say? It’s all stiff and nonsense, fairy stories and cobwebs in the sun?  Ah… but I know a secret caterpillar you see, and the secret caterpillar? He knows me!