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?