Today's striking revelations

As we are coming to the end of the year... blah blah... and set to enter a new year... blah blah. I am so tired of this. There was a time, as in once upon a time, a week before Christmas, when Dad brought home a bunch of greeting cards and covers. I was the one to be asked to sit near him and put his thoughts into English, and spell out certain words. He would constantly keep goading me that my words were not the way he wanted them to be. “You see... something is clearly missing?” It was just a card Dad my mind would cry, but then, I dare not speak that out, you see it was once-upon-a-time days.

And then came the Millennium, 1999 was the year I got married and 2000 was a big deal as if everything would change forever. But then except the hype, everything was just the usual. And then of course came the era of texting how 1st Feb 2003, 4hrs 56mins was special 1/2/3 4:56. Apart from the days, dates, month, year specialties, the New Year resolution is another cliché that makes me wonder do teetotalers even have a place on Earth?

One thing, the only thing I crave for, on every New Year eve is a diary, with pages wide enough for me to write and my only thinkable resolution every year, to fill up every page with my blusters. But I have never had a diary to start writing from the very first day of the year; I usually got it a few days into the year, and the number of words that I filled them up with, usually faded to just noting down some event reminder. But people always gifted me calendars, something I am allergic to. Recently I politely refused a few, the first time ever and happy about that ;)

So, with Facebook and Skype notifying me birthdays of friends and my smart phone holding contacts, I calm myself blogging occasionally. But the itch to own a diary arises every time I pass shops selling them. Old habits die hard, and so with the year drawing to a close, there was this itch to blog something today, being the last day of the year, and one tomorrow, to kick start a glorious year. As I checked my organizer (well, I am a bit organized!) to decide on what to write, the line “The bouquet of sixteen red roses lay regally on the” caught up my attention.

Early this year I was planning to write short stories, and this was supposed to be in the thriller/mystery genre. By the time I typed the word "regally", I wondered if it would be possible for me to write one, with limited words, and I limited my writing to that one incomplete sentence and moved on. Today I continued the line with "... white satin bedspread" and wrote whatever I felt. It must be one of my, only one of my quick writes.

And what I ended up was my usual pathetic romantic write-up. So at last I have understood that I am a hopeless romantic who ended up being the soul of this practical and witty idiot, who bleeds emotions every time she sits to write seriously. So maybe I have some multiple personality disorder. While I make such nasty jokes, charming one-liners, witty texts among friends, I blog teary-eyed and make my friends wonder if I am seriously in some hot peppered soup.

I am really tired of explaining them that this Blogger-Me is different from the Real-Me, and tried proving by writing lighter ones, and delving into crime (only fictional!), humor and thriller genres, but I failed to write and worse still failed miserably to impress my own self. So I am making peace with myself into writing what my soul wants me to write, that comforts it and is more comfortable.

And another great revelation today, is my favorite color. Every time somebody asks me my favorite color I wondered how to single out just one. I was so unsure. Green was the color of my wedding saree that I had been admonished for by everyone I ever knew. Pink was the color of the saree I bought from my first salary. Black is something mom wouldn’t want me to wear, the only reason the rebel in me love it all the more. White never stayed white, always tinged with the color of the border. Well write about color and I am priding about my sarees. Color for me related more to dress!

My blog template has also been changed so often due to this feeling of mine. I was not able to zero-in on my favorite color and ended up choosing maroon, and some black, and some green and so on. The previous template was black, and I found it straining on my eyes to read. So when changing the template for the umpteenth time did I notice that my heart swelled every time I tried the blue color.

So at last at 41 I have found out that blue is indeed my favorite color. Reminiscing the past, I have ended up designing all my web pages in blue after trying almost every other color. The most loved book that I would love to re-read and be seen reading on my last moment on earth, ‘The Zahir’ also happens to have a blue cover! (that sounds bizarre, right?) My Sony Vaio the one on which I am typing now is blue color (I can actually hear my friend chide me with a 'sounds so childish' comment exactly at this point).

So more than me going after blue color, it is blue that reaches out to me soulfully. What a revelation on New Year Eve! Feeling blissfully at peace at last... :)

To You From Me

The bouquet of sixteen red roses lay regally on the white satin bedspread, tied up with a pink satin ribbon, and a yellow note that carried the same four words that I am so used to reading the past sixteen years, each alphabet written so neatly and deftly, "To You From Me".

In the beginning, I was thinking and pounding my head, questioning who the sender was. Trying to imagine all those who looked good to be the sender, but I have such a bad head, it always sprang up with names of those I never liked or the ones who were constantly made fun of. It was so embarrassing that I never shared it with anyone I could speak to. Not that I had lots of close friends to speak to. My inner personal circle is so horribly uninhabited. Not that I am an introvert. I do have people talking to me, listening to my nonsense and seemingly admire the nonsense too.

But then these are not the people to whom I could reveal the real me. Well, who is the real me? Research still going on. I will let you know once I am done with. OK. Coming back to the bouquet, I did not have anyone to talk to, about who could have possibly sent it to me. You see these friends I was telling you about, they are so quick to laugh at everything I say, that either they would think I was making it all up or suggest an odd person of the lot and pass on this stupid idea to everyone and laugh at me. The worst outcome would be that the odd person I was telling you would behave as if I was making up this story eyeing him!

Now, don't look at me like I am overthinking. It has happened many times... well, at least a few times. The moment I start discussing the book I read, my friends are like, "are you trying to make me your reading partner?" The moment I discuss some movie, they are like, "don't tell me you want me to watch it with you". The moment I send some funny text that sounds sarcastic think I am feeling low, and say, "now don't worry, you will be alright soon, don't be so self-loathing".

And then there were those that started creating stories about me and somebody, like the odd person I told you or somebody I never even talked to, nicknaming me with acronyms of all possible disgraceful words and amusing everyone around. The worst part of this is while everyone who knew this was just fun stopped it and grew up, some openly put such nicknames on my Facebook wall happily content that they are spreading this while I end up being asked by my other friends on why I was nicknamed thus!

Well... when the bouquets were delivered the next year and then the one after that, I wondered if indeed there was a secret admirer, or were my friends simply playing pranks. While the number of roses increased every year starting from one, the red roses, pink satin ribbon, yellow note, handwriting and the words remained the same. I was a paying guest then, staying away from home. Probably this would stop once I reach my home, so instead of wondering who and why the bouquet was sent to me, I started admiring the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named.

The choice of the roses, the elegant knot of the ribbon, the white polka dotted pink satin, the fresh leaves, the lovely handwriting that made those simple alphabets look their best, what else could I admire? My days were occupied with the secret admirer. No, not exactly! my mind was occupied with my admiration for him. Wait! How did I conclude it was a him and not a her? Well... Why not a him? I preferred a him.

During the day I had so much to do and such thoughts acted as boosters, mood enhancers, made me feel good, ever smiling and more forgiving. But nights! I dreaded them. The moment my head hit the pillow, thoughts grew on me like who would it be, why is he not revealing himself? What sort of a rude joke is this? Is this prankster just waiting for me to reveal about it to my friends and all at once let out a big laugh? Or is it sent to me by mistake? Would it be? No, can't be... All these years? It was sent to me, I am sure.

The bouquets became more welcome with every passing day, and I was turning desperate, why wouldn't I, there were 31557600 seconds before I get another one! There were nights that dutifully moved on to the next day with poor me not closing my eyes. And then there were nights that I slept, only to wake up at odd hours like 12AM and 3AM, and continue my thoughts. There were nights when I wondered if I should ask for some help from some friend. What big deal if they laugh at me, at least it would all be over. But I was sure I did not want it to be over.

These nights there is one more thing I have started worrying about. What if these stop? These bouquets... What if the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named stops sending me these bouquets? And then a even worse thought strikes me, what if the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named forgets me or worse still dies? Would you think I am being too stupid if I tell you this thought brought tears to my eyes? You may be too polite to say you don't, but you might as well think I am a stupid woman, but then I did shed a few tears, think what you may.

You know after years of wondering who, why and all the many thoughts that filled me, I am just looking forward to the bouquet more as a proof that the One-who-did-not-want-to-be-Named is still alive and breathing. And when my horrible mind chuckles and asks me, "and what if it stops?" heart quips, "I would still be waiting for it to arrive".