Do listen to the soundtrack of Barfi. Soothing, unconventional music, and the best part - satirical yet extremely meaningful lyrics. Add to that the classic touch here and there. Gets you into the whole thinking mood. Especially 'Ala Barfi', and I personally prefer the Mohit Chauhan version, but that's probably because I heard that one first, and it hardly matters. Also 'Kyon' and 'Phir Le Aya Dil' (personal preference - the Rekha Bhardwaj version) - the combination of the music and lyrics literally makes your heart ache. If you don't have the album already, listen to the soundtrack online here. Worth wasting a few minutes over.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Saturday, September 1, 2012
A Certain Romance.
6 a.m.
The alarm rang.
He got out
from under his white blanket, sat up in bed, shut the alarm off.
He knew
today would be different. It felt different. He was smiling, he didn't know why.
Different.
He got out of the shower. Put on
his favourite cologne, favourite checked shirt, the classic pair of blue jeans he always wore,
his favourite pair of classic Reeboks, over the pair of Converse he normally wore,
and a smile.
Today was different.
He locked his door, stepped out
onto the road, into the sun, into Hope.
And he walked,
a crazy jingle playing across the street,
a smile on his face,
a twinkle in his eye, and he walked,
tossing a cent into the steel bowl
of that beggar playing the guitar around the corner,
an added cling to the jingle,
and a casual wave at old man John.
And he walked
towards his favourite coffee shop.
The bell rang as he opened the door,
and heads turned
as they
felt his happiness too.
Something different
about him today.
A cup, a tissue, a tip, and a smile
exchanged.
And the bell rang once more
as the door clicked shut behind him.
And he walked again,
as he took occasional sips from his cup,
walking in rythm
to the jingle still loud.
The sun was brighter,
and warmer
and happier
than usual.
And then she came,
from the other side,
the sun in her eyes,
the air in her hair,
her hair on her face as she tucked it behind her ear,
the breeze in her walk.
And his whole world lit up,
as he passed her by,
the momentary gaze,
the locking of the eyes,
the skipping of a beat,
that moment of recognition,
a connection unexplained,
and the never-breaking stare,
as she smiled to his smile.
A moment so still,
of eternity.
Today was different,
he remembered,
tearing away his gaze,
as he kept walking his way,
and she hers,
a knot building in his chest,
and butterflies in his stomach.
And even without turning,
he felt her wave at old man John,
and softly throw the penny into the beggar's bowl,
and he felt her happiness,
and he felt himself smile,
in a warmth that drowned his entire being.
And he hoped,
if even for a second,
she felt the same way too.
And it was,
a certain romance.
The alarm rang.
He got out
from under his white blanket, sat up in bed, shut the alarm off.
He knew
today would be different. It felt different. He was smiling, he didn't know why.
Different.
He got out of the shower. Put on
his favourite cologne, favourite checked shirt, the classic pair of blue jeans he always wore,
his favourite pair of classic Reeboks, over the pair of Converse he normally wore,
and a smile.
Today was different.
He locked his door, stepped out
onto the road, into the sun, into Hope.
And he walked,
a crazy jingle playing across the street,
a smile on his face,
a twinkle in his eye, and he walked,
tossing a cent into the steel bowl
of that beggar playing the guitar around the corner,
an added cling to the jingle,
and a casual wave at old man John.
And he walked
towards his favourite coffee shop.
The bell rang as he opened the door,
and heads turned
as they
felt his happiness too.
Something different
about him today.
A cup, a tissue, a tip, and a smile
exchanged.
And the bell rang once more
as the door clicked shut behind him.
And he walked again,
as he took occasional sips from his cup,
walking in rythm
to the jingle still loud.
The sun was brighter,
and warmer
and happier
than usual.
And then she came,
from the other side,
the sun in her eyes,
the air in her hair,
her hair on her face as she tucked it behind her ear,
the breeze in her walk.
And his whole world lit up,
as he passed her by,
the momentary gaze,
the locking of the eyes,
the skipping of a beat,
that moment of recognition,
a connection unexplained,
and the never-breaking stare,
as she smiled to his smile.
A moment so still,
of eternity.
Today was different,
he remembered,
tearing away his gaze,
as he kept walking his way,
and she hers,
a knot building in his chest,
and butterflies in his stomach.
And even without turning,
he felt her wave at old man John,
and softly throw the penny into the beggar's bowl,
and he felt her happiness,
and he felt himself smile,
in a warmth that drowned his entire being.
And he hoped,
if even for a second,
she felt the same way too.
And it was,
a certain romance.
Come-back post #Umpteen.
I've been out of touch with the writer in me for quite a while now. It's something I like doing, but somehow, I've always managed to find a reason to shelf it. Not that I'm avoiding it, after all, it isn't really a compulsion. It isn't a compulsion at all. In fact, I want to keep writing. Lots of thoughts in my mind, every now and then. And I want to put them all down. Given that I've been using the blogger like a personal journal of sorts, a vent to my ever-full-of-infinite-thoughts mind, I actually enjoy writing here. Moreover, I like a little bit of audience every once in a while. And I know for a fact I don't write that bad either. It's mostly random, but it's honest. And what I've learned over the years is, honesty sells. Oh yes, it does. People love honesty. I love honesty. There's a feeling of freedom to everything honest, especially when they're confessions, guilty or not. Honesty. That brings me back to why I haven't been writing as often as I originally intended to while creating this blog.
I've been lazy. Wayyy (yes, that many Ys) too lazy for a 20 year old, I can vouch. The thoughts just keep coming and going, the self-answered questions, and a few unanswered ones, the experiences, the feelings.. And the laptop's right here, open beside me. But there's always a "better reason" to not write: five more minutes of sleep which ultimately extends up to a couple of hours or more; watching more than my daily quota of episodes of 'The Mentalist' (an awesome show I've started watching recently); lying down on my bed and doing some more day-dreaming; reading other blogs; or simply pretending to "study".
"Always one excuse or the other." (thick teacher-ish accent).
But I want to write. It's just that I don't want to make that effort of actually sitting up and typing all of that. Sometimes I wish we had a technology wherein we would simply think and all our thoughts would magically get written on their own. Very much like Rita Skeeter's magic quill, I would say. But if only even half our wishes came true, right?
A few of my friends, and also a few other people who surprisingly follow my blog discreetly, much to the pleasure of my childish desire for praise, have been telling me to write something soon 'cause they like what they read. (Discreet followers, if you be reading this, yes, you're not the only one). So that kind of acts like an inspiration of sorts to actually sit and update this page. If not for me, for them. So here I am, in yet another attempt to revive the writer in me. I like that person, and I want her to live. Besides the extremely passionate person in me who likes photography and everything to do with it, the writer in me is almost the only other person in me I'm proud of. Phew, that's intense, eh? I wish I could post half as frequently, okay one-fifth, no make that one-tenth as frequently as those Thought Catalog people (http://thoughtcatalog.com/ for all you ignorant retards), and of course not to mention half as awesome, but that's not possible.
I know this blog won't last forever. It has to end one day. Either I'll run out of thoughts and actually face the writer's block everybody keeps talking about, or I'll just grow up to realise what a stupid kid I have been wasting precious minutes of my life over a stupid little machine that cannot react to human emotions and will inevitably become obsolete one day.
But till then, I'll keep trying. And I hope one day, when I'm gone, someone somewhere will read my very own "thought catalog" here, and will remember me for the person they discovered I was.
I've been lazy. Wayyy (yes, that many Ys) too lazy for a 20 year old, I can vouch. The thoughts just keep coming and going, the self-answered questions, and a few unanswered ones, the experiences, the feelings.. And the laptop's right here, open beside me. But there's always a "better reason" to not write: five more minutes of sleep which ultimately extends up to a couple of hours or more; watching more than my daily quota of episodes of 'The Mentalist' (an awesome show I've started watching recently); lying down on my bed and doing some more day-dreaming; reading other blogs; or simply pretending to "study".
"Always one excuse or the other." (thick teacher-ish accent).
But I want to write. It's just that I don't want to make that effort of actually sitting up and typing all of that. Sometimes I wish we had a technology wherein we would simply think and all our thoughts would magically get written on their own. Very much like Rita Skeeter's magic quill, I would say. But if only even half our wishes came true, right?
A few of my friends, and also a few other people who surprisingly follow my blog discreetly, much to the pleasure of my childish desire for praise, have been telling me to write something soon 'cause they like what they read. (Discreet followers, if you be reading this, yes, you're not the only one). So that kind of acts like an inspiration of sorts to actually sit and update this page. If not for me, for them. So here I am, in yet another attempt to revive the writer in me. I like that person, and I want her to live. Besides the extremely passionate person in me who likes photography and everything to do with it, the writer in me is almost the only other person in me I'm proud of. Phew, that's intense, eh? I wish I could post half as frequently, okay one-fifth, no make that one-tenth as frequently as those Thought Catalog people (http://thoughtcatalog.com/ for all you ignorant retards), and of course not to mention half as awesome, but that's not possible.
I know this blog won't last forever. It has to end one day. Either I'll run out of thoughts and actually face the writer's block everybody keeps talking about, or I'll just grow up to realise what a stupid kid I have been wasting precious minutes of my life over a stupid little machine that cannot react to human emotions and will inevitably become obsolete one day.
But till then, I'll keep trying. And I hope one day, when I'm gone, someone somewhere will read my very own "thought catalog" here, and will remember me for the person they discovered I was.
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