Snow on my Window

My desk is covered in books and greeting cards, mom’s kitchen is filled with the emanating smell of cookies, the fairy lights have been guiding the dark hallway and my soul is screaming, “Christmas!” It’s the most beautiful time of the year again, and my heart feels as wintery as the weather. At times I get the feeling that I might just be Elsa’s descendant. I don’t know what it is about this festival that turns me back into the 11-year-old snuggling under her Pooh blanket and reading about Harry vanquishing Professor Quirrell. Maybe it’s the smell of the snowy breeze or the high of sugary candy or just an uncanny interest in the roots of this tradition. The longing for memories gone by, and hope for roads yet untraveled. My head is singing the carols whose lyrics have slightly faded, and my hands are all set to excavate the cheesecake.  

Meanwhile, my not-so-secret Santa is busy preparing my gifts.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity.

A Not-so-Pretentious Movie Review

Okay, so, here’s the thing: I write when I’m in my head, I write when my emotions are scattered all over the goddamn universe, and the several milliseconds in between (a fact you might have noticed if you’ve known me for a while). And so, I decided to scribble this down while the Tamasha-hangover is still fresh in my mind; because this movie turned me into a lovelorn maniac.

I’m not going to get into the gory details, since I presume everyone has already been fed with eclectic reviews about it being an unnecessarily lengthy movie and shit like that. Let me break it down to you in a slightly simple manner: those who found the movie boring, are the ones who didn’t understand it. You need a certain amount of patience and gray matter to decrypt the complex human tendencies Imtiaz Ali attempts to portray. You see, his hunger as a storyteller prods him to cross the boundaries of the mundane, and step into a mystical land; a land meant for artists and the like. This is what makes him ahead of his time, and one of the best writers and visionaries Bollywood has ever seen.  

I can list down a long parchment of reasons as to why you should watch Tamasha, but my chatty blogger tendencies can’t keep up with the busy schedule of my readers, and so here goes:

You should watch it because Corsica is probably a place adjacent to Hogwarts, as it pretty much looked like a city where all the magic happens, and also a place I’ve added to my ‘most-definitely-must-visit’ list. You should watch it because the only thing as pretty as Corsica, is Deepika herself. So subtle, so poised, so elegant. She’s what a painter dreams of. And, and, AND, the reason why you should abso-frikkin-lutely MUST watch Tamasha, is because Ranbir is a powerhouse of versatility. His talent and charisma sparkle throughout the movie, and he owns the soul of the character with dignity. Ved is the kid you were, and the man you wish you could be. Ranbir and Deepika’s chemistry electrifies the screen and overflows down the ambience. If certain moments seem a little tedious, remember it’s all worthwhile since this is a story that will tap into the nostalgic corners of your memory. A story so poignant, it’s like poetry in motion. And the thing about poetry, is that not everyone gets it.

So, to all the story-lovers out there, and the rest of mankind: please go experience this tale.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity. 

Hello from the Inside

Rich, pretty, popular. Quiet, clumsy, outsider. The concept of permutation and combination is a myth.

I have been weird my whole life; happily trapped inside my kaleidoscopic world. The black box. I was the kid hiding behind the desk hoping no one would call out her name. I was the girl at the restaurant who didn’t know how to hold a wine glass. Is he trying to talk to me? Is it okay if I don’t talk back? Oh no, don’t walk away. Nevermind.

I took bedtime stories seriously. They were supposed to make you dream of open fields and unicorns; and so they did.  No, I didn’t want the pink frock. I wanted the grey tee with Harry and Buckbeak on it.  “Why can’t you read louder?” Because my reading voice drowns in my head. “Why won’t you stop shaking your legs?” Because I have restless leg syndrome. Because I was not meant to stay in one place, and I never am. I’m both here, and very far away.

All those kids laughing at me. They wouldn’t believe me when I said shooting stars exist. They do. I saw one. I made a wish. I wished for the noise to stop. I wrote. I wrote till the journal yawned, and the poems ended with a lullaby. I dreamt. I dreamt of a night sky filled with stars waiting to shine down.

I don’t want to go to the party. Why are you dragging me there? Why is the music so loud? Why is this drink messing my already messed-up mind? But, I studied for the test a week back. “Such a nerd!” I smiled. She thought that was an insult. Silly girl. I was Hermione with bad hair and brown skin.

Whoever invented fandom merchandise was a genius. My t-shirt has Sheldon claiming he’s not crazy. Ooooh. A cute guy. “Who’s that on your t-shirt?” Sigh. Goodbye, mister.

“Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting tired and I need something to rely on…” *cries* “What happened?” Music. Music happened.

Pyjamas, pasta, Midnight in Paris. Woody Allen is my spirit animal.

Let’s pause. Let’s rant.

I’m an introvert. I’m both friendly and awkward. I’m both sane and demented. I’ll either travel for 12 days straight or not get up from my bed for a week. I either love hard or hate vehemently. If you find me complicated, I won’t chain you down. If you tolerate my finickiness, I thank you. If you share my insanity, we’re probably best friends.

After 23 years of existence, I’ve realized that my eccentricity is inherited. I was born with the will to own it, and is something I’m going to proudly pass on to my kids. (Also, my daughter probably won’t get dinner if she’s not a fangirl and doesn’t know how to pronounce epitome. Just saying.)

Did I tell you soliloquies are a part of my daily calendar?

Gotta go now. Barry and Oliver are out saving Central City.

Till I write again,

Creative Insanity.