Wednesday, 23 July 2014

About the title 'No wet blankets, please.'

Hello, charming reader!

This is going to be a little post. 
Lots of people who read this meek blog of mine have asked me the story behind the beguiling font-ed title of this blog, ‘No wet blankets, please.

It’s a weird name, I agree. I give you that.
But it really, really appeals to me.
The thing is: I just don’t know why.
When I started with this blog, it just hit me out of the blue. I don’t like wet blankets. Let’s put that. There you go! Brilliant. Wow. Marvelous.

So I put it. Didn’t think about it.

Anyway.
I’ll change the name one day if I’m feeling all too dexterous or ingenious. One beautiful sunlit day.

Oh, and for those who don’t know, wet blankets are used as a metaphor to unenthusiastic, droopy things in life. Spoilt sports. Grouchy creatures?
Yes, you understand now, don’t you?

I do love a lot of kind of creatures of Planet Earth. But I’m not particularly fond of wet blankets.
They’re just so wet, you know.
You need dry, sometimes.
Have a wonderful day.

Have a wonderful no-wet-blanket-encounter day.

With all stunning love I could possibly bequeath,
Yours truly,
Samriddhi 

PS. As you can see, I love cheesy letter closings. 
I love them more than I can show.

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Sold my French-fries-loving Soul for Little Patrick

So, here’s the thing.
I have ADORED McDonald's French fries. They just taste right. Like French fires should taste, you know. A burger (maybe two), fries and coke. That’s a staple McDonald’s buy for me.
But recently, I had a calamity, a heartbreak.

It all started with one of those futile friend-to-friend conversations.
There we were, perching on the sofa, drinking iced lemonade, talking about the prices of tomatoes escalating up and discussing if there are ways to get a tomato-ketchup-like taste without a tomato. Something that could substitute tomatoes, you know.

Anyway, we both got jaded of a conversation which none of us were smart enough to haul further. So we hunted new topics to chatter about. Then, she proclaimed that the McDonald's people, they’re giving away Spongebob Squarepant toys with every Happy Meal and then she showed a picture of her Spongebob toy.

Let me tell you now. I have loved some cartoons in my life dearly, exceedingly. I still love them like they’re a part of me. One considerable part.
And I have loved Spongebob.
Man. I saw sparks fly when I saw the toy. It was then that I felt love blossoming in my soul and I realized I HAD to get myself ONE toy.
So, Happy Meal, it was decided.

When was the last time I had a Happy Meal, I thought.
Not in ages. I’m a frequent McDonalds’ burger gobbler. 
But Happy Meals? Nah. It’s been some years since my body started mounting throughout and its need and greed for more calories became understandable and imperative.
And I couldn’t defy the imperative. I bade goodbye to little burgers, little meals and started with gigantic ones. It was a beautiful transition.

So, the first thing, that night I declared that I just HAD to have McDonalds. Simply HAD to. And fortunately for me, my parents and my brother, everyone, they were all in for the scheme.
Same blood. 
No matter how healthy my family pretends to eat, we all lust for cheese and fried food and spices furtively. And we majorly give in to that lust. 
That’s us, alright. Huhaha.

We placed the order. My brother and I go for this Maharaja meal all the time. Huge burger, fries, coke and sometimes we order an additional burger. 
We have massive appetites, I know.
But this time, I opted for the Happy Meal. You know why. 
And I said I’ll have another burger with the meal. Just to be sure I don’t have to rove and rant around with an empty stomach.

“What are you ordering a Happy Meal for?” my brother had rumbled.
“To be happy. Why do you bother?” I retorted back.
“You just want the toy, you’re sad,” he sighed.
“I’m a happier creature than you are.”
So the order was placed.
‘Thank you for calling McDonalds. You will receive your order in 29 minutes approximately from your nearest branch. Your order number is blah-blah-blah.’

Sure enough, a guy arrives punctually with the food delivery.
I am leaping with joy. Thrilled to see what toy awaits me.

And that is when my eyes fell on Little Patrick for the first time. 


I felt … amazing. I don't know what else to put there.
The guy put Little Patrick into my hands and there I was, grinning like mad. I had almost snatched Little Patrick from him, now that I think of it.

“Umm… please check your order once ma'm,” the delivery guy says, clearly a little staggered.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I say, but I’m too occupied gaping dotingly at Patrick.
“I’ll check,” my brother shoots a revolted look at me.
I give him this I-seriously-don’t-care-what-you-think- look.
“Umm... I think it’s OK, we’re good,” my brother tells the delivery guy. The guy smiles. My brother pays.
“Hey, wait. We have only one cone of fries. We ordered two meals,” my brother says.

“Uh, yeah, Happy meal doesn’t have fries, you see,” they guy explains.

And then, I realized what I heard. And it knocked me. I put little Patrick down.
“WHAT?” I rush to the delivery guy. I swear he gaped at me like I was some alien or something.

“NO FRIES? NO FRIES IN HAPPY MEALS? Since WHEN?!”
“Since some time,” the guy says. He bears the countenance of a frightened protagonist in a horror movie.

“Listen, I have had Happy meals ever since I was a kid,” I went almost emotional. 
I don’t know why I was telling all that to him. 
“That’s the point of ordering a meal, isn’t it? A burger, fires and drink. I love the fries there. I’ve never not had fries with a McDonald's dinner. Please. Don’t do this to Happy Meals, please, just do not. I know it's not your say. What to do to Happy Meals. But this is what is happening to the world, you know. We're all in this together. Times are changing and good things are going away. Tomatoes are expensive now in our country, so are onions. How do we cope? How do I cope with everything? Heaven knows I have troubles, my ear phones haven’t been working well enough, I am so peeved.. I….”



And my Daddy steps in. Stops me.
“I can get you fries, Mam,” the guy squeaks at last.
“No, no, no, that would be all. Thank you so much,” my father says. I watch him as he tips the guy extra because of his daughter’s tirade.
I watched the guy limp away hurriedly.
And then, I was all like:

“That’s enough. You’re not getting fries today,” my father hands me Little Patrick. “You have your toy.”
“Whoever said I can’t have my toy AND fries?” I moan. “Why did you send him away? He could get fries.” I know I can be a wretched wimp sometimes.

“Oh god, stop this melodrama. Look, he has fries in his meal, both of you share, no,” my father says, pointing to my brother.

I KNOW BETTER, PAPA. I KNOW BETTER.
Oh, how would you understand, oh naïve father.

How do I put this? 
Okay, well.
My brother and I, we don’t share food. (Food we both LIKE, of course.)
No, we don’t. 
We order a lot of it and we divide it as fairly as we can in the beginning and once it is divided, our portions of food, they’re now to be treated like classified possessions. They are precious; they are not to be given away. We don’t even bother asking each other because most of the times, I know he’ll refuse and he knows I will.

But I decided to give it a shot.
And, it wasn’t a very good experience.



Something like that happened, yes.
Brothers are vile, vicious, vicious, and heartless.

Okay, FINE. I'll say it. In the end, he DID offer me fries. A little of it. But I refused. I was in a state of shock.

That night, I lay on my bed looking at Little Patrick. 
Little Patrick stared back at me. 
All the love that had ushered into me when I first saw little Patrick, I struggled to bring back the love. It was meaningless. A lot of the love had been drained out somehow.

Little Patrick now stands on my desk as a reminder of how I had my first ever McDonalds dinner without fries.
I inadvertently sold my French-fry-loving soul for a little pink toy. For Little Patrick.

But I do not hate Little Patrick. It’s impossible to hate something with those huge adorable eyes. AWWW.

And that lovely, flabby, cute belly. AWWWWWWWWWW.

I melt when I look at you, you lovely little thing.

But Little Patrick, you DO remind of a cold French-fry-less night. 
And it’s not one of my favorite memories.



Tuesday, 15 July 2014

I'm Not Anna

[What the author has to say about I'm Not Anna:
Umm… Okay.
So ‘I'm Not Anna’ is something I wrote in like ten minutes. Yesterday.

‘Fit of spirits’, this has been written in. That is what you can call it. 
This piece is vastly a consequence of this weird state of doldrums I had yesterday. 
Unexplained doldrums. Music can be an explanation. 
Anyway.
I just picked up the laptop and typed away. Felt good.

I wanted to post this because I write senseless things down almost every day because I love to but I never put them up on my blog because I fear they’re too... well, absurd? 
But I realized something.

Does it matter?
This is MY blog. It’s mine and I can plant garbage into it if I fancy.
It’s MY VENT. That’s the reason why I started blogging in the first place.
Read on. And if this entire Anna-thing makes no sense to you, don’t you worry.
You’re not dumb; it’s the opus that is.

PS. No offense to any Annas out there. You all have a pretty name.]

I'm Not Anna

Why do you hold back?
Don’t be so kind to him
Don’t be so cruel to me.
Do you want to have me believe it was all in my head?
Everything I was sure I heard, everything you never said.
I don’t want to be Anna.
I can’t escape once I’m in.

Why can’t you give me a sign?
Don’t be so partial to her,
Don’t be so cruel to me.
I've drowned inside you and you don’t know a thing
Oh maybe, you’re not clever and you haven’t an inkling.
But I don’t want to be Anna.
I don’t want to stride away elsewhere.

I think maybe you know,
You know about me and you’re just being mean.
Maybe you are made for her,
 Maybe you are being kind to him.
I am not into anyone else, it’s just you.
It can never be anyone else, it’s always been you.
Oh, you might leave, you leave soon and if you do
I will sever a little, I can’t let that happen.
But no matter how hard I try to get you out of me,
I can’t.
I am not Anna.
I can’t fall out of love.

I have been waiting for a moment of ours
There’s not been too many.
Oh, who am I kidding? There hasn’t been any.
Do you ever realize I have unbolted myself to you?
You’ve heard my insides like no one else
But you don’t care.
And I hate it but I care, I care so much,
I am into you, pleading you to find your way to me.
But I think you want to whisk away to her.
And you think I must whisk away to him.
Oh darling, but I’m not Anna.

I’m foolish, I’m a lovelorn lass
I have truthfully, ardently fallen for you.
No one else but you.
Please forget everything, please do.
And run to me, rescue me from this insanity taken over me
Be mine like I’ve become yours even though you don’t have me
Or just pass me a hint if you never will run,
Before I go insane completely.
No, it will break me, please just run to me.
I’m not Anna.
I’m unlike others, you’ll see.
And I promise to love you like you’ve never seen.

I’m a thrall of yours and I shall stay one as long as my heart can afford it.
I’m a thrall to your swings, to your charisma, to you.
To the whole of you.
I’ll never be Anna.
I have fallen so profound into you.
So could you fall for me too?


Saturday, 12 July 2014

Welcome to womanhood, my child.


I made this sketch some time ago.
It was nice, making it. I’ve always loved sketching. 
Putting in strokes and shadows on a bare white page and trying to make a picture, a story out of it. I think every sketch has a story behind it, some mush. That’s how I sketch anyway. I sketch with something in my mind and what I think somehow mingles into the paper, reflects from it.

The girl above is thinking something. She’s mystified, the girl there. The woman, there. I don’t know what to call her. A girl? Or a woman?
 If I ask her what I should call her, I’m sure she wouldn’t know either.
And I can relate to that.
I turned eighteen last year. 
My official treading into the planet of adults. I turn nineteen in about two months. 
I do feel I have changed ever since I turned 18 but I don’t honestly know if that change can be attributed to ‘coming of age’ because I think we change a little every year. 

Anyway, I received a pretty little letter from my mother on my 18th birthday. 
The last line of the letter said:
Welcome to womanhood, my child.

It is difficult, isn’t it? This impetuous transition. 
It’s like you’ve been growing up a girl all this while and then, boom, it’s time to become a woman. We realize we have to become one. We realize we’re expected to become one. Act like one.
That doesn’t happen to me. Acting the way women are supposed to, I mean. 
And who is it who has defined a manner women are supposed to behave? 
It’s so stupid. Ludicruous. 
I love to hop about, I love to shout, I love to laugh meaninglessly for hours, I don’t like to dress up, I like to leave my hair the messy way it is, I’m callous, I spill things onto my clothes all the time, I don’t give a damn about my looks, I love to watch wrestling and I am into sports. But that is not what makes me different from women; no. 
Absolutely NOT. 
A flimsy, sugary, malleable, gentle damsel is a preposterous definition and perception of a woman.  Being a woman is something entirely different.

So who are women? And how are they any different from what we’ve been growing up as?
Honestly, I’ve made blunders in life. Frivolous mistakes like everyone must have made. But I always had a shore to go to when the waters got too deep; I had a shoulder to cry on when I needed to and a hand to get me things that were out of my reach. People were too kind. It was like I was expected to make mistakes then and there were people who were more than willing to guide me. They’re still present here to guide me and I’m sure they forever will be.

But growing up means you have to learn to let go of the guide even though you can possibly still have it. And this is the one thing that scares me the most, losing the guide. I would be expected to walk and heal on my own if I’m bruised. I have always been terrified to make decisions entirely on my own because I dread I will be the only one to hold responsible if things go wrong.
Women, however, can make their own decisions, correct ones, I heard. That’s how they differ from girls.

But I don’t think so, you know. I don’t think that the element about being a real woman is making the correct decisions. 
I think being a woman would mean that you’re courageous enough to follow what you wanted and even if it turns out to be the wrong thing, you don’t sulk. You are brave. You face the consequences. You live, you survive and you emerge. 
Being a woman is not about how you have found yourself but how far you’ve explored yourself and how much more you are willing to.

A woman would want to be beautiful, not hot. A woman in love will love you till time stops. You know you have morphed into a woman when you stop believing in fleeting passions and you believe in love for life itself. 
A woman’s love is divine. If she finds what she loves, she loves it all, she drowns into it, lets it devour her.

A woman is elegant. She can pull off a full sleeved jumpsuit and looks as gorgeous in it as someone would look in a revealing red gown. She might have additional curves but she has learnt to love them because they’re a part of her. 
A woman would fall but she will fall elegantly. A woman will cry, she’ll take time but she’ll wipe her tears one day and get back to her feet. You don’t get infatuated with a woman, you fall in love with her because she hasn’t charmed you; she has made you feel beautiful.  
A woman can take on the world. A woman is powerful. And lovely. And magical.

And I haven’t become one yet.
I’m not sure when I will become. It’s not easy becoming one.

I think I am still a girl with a woman thriving inside of me. Yes, there I am, somewhere clustering in between the both. 
Sometimes, I feel so vital, treasured, confident and I feel like I’m in hovering up above the clouds; sometimes, I feel so distressed, befuddled, annoyed and there are occasions when I feel  so mortified that I could go pick a shovel, plow a hole in the earth, bury myself there and lie for eternity.

I would love to be the portrait of a confident, smart, young, feisty woman ready to take on the world but I do not detest being a girl somehow. The girl I am is what will always remain with me, no matter what I turn into.
So do I stop making mistakes now that I’m supposed to flourish into this grown-up woman? That is impossible. But do I own up to the mistakes I make, the paths I choose and do I wrestle my scuffles on my very own? Yes.

I think that’s what the girl in the sketch is thinking too.
 She has to and she will blossom into a wonderful woman some day. 
She does grasp that somewhere inside her are springing thoughts she never thought before, feelings she never felt before and she has become wiser. But she’s still a girl, still apprehensive of a lot of things and sometimes, she might fall hard and sulk. She still grouses about how unfair her life can be, she gets mesmerized with stupid things, she sighs when she looks at her flabby limbs in the mirror. 
Yet, she has found beauty in herself, beauty she never knew of before. She has begun to fall in love with the person she has to spend her entire life with, she’s learning to genuinely love the person she is. She is learning and she is going to learn a lot more. 
She is going to make herself become someone the world can respect but above all, she is going to become she can respect herself. 
She shall wake up one day and she shall stop decorating her body and start decorating her soul instead.
She will change. Beautifully.
But traces of the girl she was before, the girl she is, shreds of it shall be with her forever.

The girl she was shall linger on to her, inside of her, stay with her like a shadow. But parts of her shall change and it will be a lovely change. 
And she’ll become a woman.
And I think no matter who she becomes or who she is; a woman or a girl, she will always remain the special person she is. 
Always loved by her loved ones. 

I think it's like what my mother wrote. 
Welcome to womanhood, my child.
The world might someday watch me in my feisty woman avatar. But I'm always going to remain my mother's child.