All Music is Good

Many sins have been committed. Many lives taken. Many hearts broken. Many dreams shattered. Many songs sung…

Remember talking throughout the night…just sweet nothings trying to make each other feel good about ourselves? Sharing moments at night was infinitely more potent for intimacy than any other time of the day, even on the phone ;-) Half a million dilemmas for half a dozen years. But that too was fun wasn’t it?

Remember your first record, your baby? Remember how passionately, how painstakingly it was put together? Bit-by-bit, note-by-note, track-by-track. I know you’re waiting…you’re waiting…you’re waiting…and I just watched the lines of concentration on the forehead shielding the genius behind, where all the music came from. You in a maroon sweatshirt, lovingly entwined with your guitar. You with your headphones, brows knit together in deep meditation to take the music apart, so you could rebuild it. You upset about second year results, and your piano came to the rescue, not me. Did you let me? Did we make music together, or was it just you?

This was no conventional love story. Not even one predictable scene of traditional lovers. No kissing in the rain. No walks through the park. No holding hands and walking into the sunset. But it WAS something.

What is it with people? When one is sad, why does he try to remember the good times to feel ok? What is wrong with embracing pain? Just letting it seep through your system…cruising through your veins…slowly unfurling its tentacles to clutch your heart…tightening its grip…grinding it to dust…

…All because the music upset me. I won’t be waiting…

Mum-and-Dad

From some of my earliest childhood memories, one that stands out particularly clearly is me in my dad’s arms, posing for a photo, when my dad impulsively planted a kiss on my right cheek, and the camera flashed! I didn’t know whether it was the flash that startled me more or the impulsive sweetheart of a kiss! (My family didn’t believe in Public Displays of Affection). There’s also this time when dad took me shoe shopping when I topped my grade, and we went berserk picking up virtually everything I liked. (We weren’t that well to do, either). Or the time when I was away at college, and he begged me to come back home, and not take up a job in Mumbai, his voice all choked up, because he was missing me. (My dad is the Rock of Gibraltar, and I’m sure you remember the NO PDA).

Mum was the opposite. Cute and childlike. She’d slap me for some non-issue naughtiness and then cry for hours in remorse. It was easier being naughty with her. She was kinda naughty herself. Like this time I was being way too unruly to handle, and she brought out this huge blowup of a spider photo, to scare me into obedience, accounting for a lifelong case of acute arachnophobia. (Dude, you had to be there. It would have scared the shit outta any 6 yr old). And then she would scour out the corners of bathrooms everytime before I had to go, because I was now terrified that there’ll be some eight-legged freak lurking there. Or every Sunday that she’d make puri-aloo for breakfast just because I wanted it.

Mum and Dad. The coolest people in the world. The greatest couple in the world. Like they say. All happy families are similar. Their word was gospel. Their beliefs, the truth. Their actions, to be emulated. Their ideas, to be imbibed.

So when did they become real people, the gods in my life? So they who could do no wrong, when did they stop being right? The paragons of virtue, the providers, the caretakers, the parents. Was it when dad lost his business, and with it his drive, his ambition, his persona? Was it when mum started drinking? Or was it when the affairs started? Or maybe the bout with cancer? Or the second one? Jealousy? Hatred? Suspicion? Suicidal tendencies? Where? Where was the beginning of the end?

Don’t even start. This is not a plea for sympathy. Mum’s still mum. Dad’s still dad. They are just not mum-and-dad anymore. But yeah, somewhere along the way, I discovered I was a separate person. Different. Distinct. Yeah, so the belief system crashed. Everything that laid the foundation was untrue. All the ideas that shaped my life were, to say the least, bullshit. Then I realized they had managed to create a stronger foundation than I gave them credit for. Instead of trudging along with a borrowed system, they had somehow given me the tools to create my own.

Now they are not the people I idolize. They are just the people I love.

Virgin Blog

I started blogging. Actually, the whole story started when I started reading the damn blogs…from one on to another…one link to another…until I decided these weren’t vella people writing about their lives and trials! This was some serious shit man! With values and opinions ruling the roost…then I come across the Blank Noise Project…and then onwards my fascination began.

First, I was stunned by the sheer size of the blogosphere! The sheer talent, the astounding knowledge of these individuals is crazeeeee! I don’t know which blog it was that actually inspired me into this, but well, now it has happened, and if you chance upon this…your rotten luck…because I’m just not too opinionated or value-oriented (I’ll accept anything you have to say, without shock/judgment)…and I like to talk about myself too!

And then I wrote my first ever post. Published. Then I would log on everyday to just see if someone did post a comment…and wonder of wonders…today someone did…and I’m oh so happy! Thank you, my first reader I’m guessing! Talk about motivation…

One thing more…contrary to what the title, again, leads you to believe…not all my posts will be about sex…(lol)

Why Goddess of Wanton Love

Yeah, it means cow-adorned pastures…think what you must of it, but it is the name of some ancient Celtic queen, whom apparently no mortal man could satisfy! I chose this name for a number of reasons, which I will now list as the quintessential MBA…in point-format…

Now I am not saying I’m dissatisfied with anything ;-) but then it’s only once in a while that you hear of some female like this. Why is it only a man is applauded for his sexual exploits? A promiscuous man is indulged by society, whereas the promiscuous woman is a slut! Finally I found my answer to Casanova. I will flaunt my being the Goddess of Wanton Love, and be proud of it.

I am fascinated by the subject of sex. As is EVERYONE else. But it is just a coincidence that this allusion to sex is rather direct. This is not just about sex man! I will not, even by mistake, ever be satisfied with anything. I want to live alive. Doesn’t come by being satisfied with what you already have. So if you see it in a figurative sort of manner, I am just someone whose thirst cannot be quenched…and dude I’m so not talking about my pyaasi jawani…

The real name is Achtland. I added the ‘ia’ at the end for a subtle femininity…and for the fondness of a certain vodka…Saturday nights are for partying and partying only…Long Live the Gauls…hic!