The Proper Care and Feeding of the Writers in Your Life – Volume 1

This post speaks volumes (no, really; it’s one damn long write up) about the atrocities and trials faced by the average blogger. A humorous rendering of pent up frustrations, I could totally relate to the content. Maybe some of you too will. If not, just sit back and inhale this dose of literary laughing gas.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the obnoxiously clever, irreplaceable Brian of the Bonnywood Manor.

Bonnywood Manor

Once upon a time, in a land where the summer sun can kill your soul, on the patio of a restaurant bar where the libations eased the slow heat-death, a discussion took place betwixt a certain writer and a certain beloved person in the writer’s life. The conversation was initially mundane, with rambling whatnots about who would sleep with George Clooney if given the chance and whether or not a proper queso recipe should include diced onion. Then, in a rather alarming development, the dialogue became a wee bit accusatory, and non-sexual passions were enflamed. Nonetheless, some intriguing considerations arose, and I would be remiss in my responsibilities as a writer if I didn’t share this conversation with you.

(Note: Forthwith, the “writer” shall be known as “Hexom”, a character in one of my books, a simple ploy that should give the illusion that someone else has an issue, even…

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The Thing That Must Not Be Named

So my boyfriend complains of a splitting headache, and I graciously offer to massage his head in the event that he manages to procure a medicated balm to be smeared over his forehead. 

He heads to a random medical store, and in his current affliction, stands there hesitating, trying to recollect what brand I had suggested.

The very understanding shop keeper nods, reaches down and hands across the counter a packet of condoms.

Broken

I was in a hurry to have breakfast yesterday morning. I dropped my heavy shoulder bag on to an adjacent chair in the common students’ mess, and half threw my sling bag on top of it, before heading to the counter. It was after I had settled down and started eating that both the bags fell to the floor with a loud thud.

I didn’t really think much of it. That is, until I got to our department and fished my phone out of the bag.

A huge crack grimaced at the top left corner, spidering and spreading across the screen all the way to the bottom. I felt a wave of devastation.

No, mine is not a brand new phone. It is exactly three years old, bought in September 2014 with my first earnings, during my internship. I still remember how many reviews I went through and how many specifications I obsessed over, before zeroing down on this one. And unlike most people I know, I made sure the protective case arrived within a week of purchase – I wasn’t going to take chances. 

I’m proud to say that the phone did not let me down, it lived up to my expectations, caught all my good memories and also almost all of the photos on this blog. By the third year, I was starting to feel even a little haughty, as my friends’ handsets got disfigured, damaged or simply died, mine was still as good as new. Well, maybe it did have scratches over the edges , and maybe the skin peeled a little at the back, but to me it was perfect, a reminder that I too am capable of good choices once in a while. 

They say, the software gets affected once the hardware is; Google tells me cracks will eventually cause dirt and sweat and water to leak in and cause collapse of the system. That’s just so sad. 

But then, I remembered something else I read a few days back, a story by Osho about how nothing is sad news or good news, it’s just news. Anything that happens, we shouldn’t hurry to put them into categories. So I thought I’d do that now instead. My phone screen broke. That is all it is. It is neither good nor bad. Cool.

I’m currently searching online for wallpapers to camouflage the broken screen. This is actually fun. In a way.

Some Choices

Some choices are like that;

Amusing for a moment

And tragic for a lifetime.

This Part Of You

I had forgotten this part of you.

The part that cannot decipher my unspoken words. The part that inadvertantly steps over my silent cries for attention, because maybe you don’t suspect that I’m this frail. The part that not even tries to realise that I am struggling behind the weak smiles and half hearted statements. The part that mistakes the pause at the end of my replies; what I put forth as a comma, you perceive as a period and think no more about my broken sentences. 

How then, can I expect you to mend all else that’s broken about me?