Why I’m Not A Cat Person

Oh she’s finally up. Even the Sun is embarrassed for her, like am I not shining bright enough? On a second thought she doesn’t really need to leave her bed. It’s not like she’s contributing to mankind in any way when she’s off it.

She’s filling my food bowl. How cute. Like I’d wait for her to have my breakfast. Mom already fixed me mine. Mom definitely loves me more than she loves her. And I don’t even have a college degree.

Look at her typing away on her laptop like she’s doing something so important. I went and had a look. She’s stalking her crush and writing a blog about it. Delusional woman. There are more chances of me making friends with the next door dog than of the guy ever acknowledging her existence.

Oh she’s standing in front of the mirror. If someone paid her to do that, she’d be a millionaire. It’s not a magical mirror though that’ll change how she looks. Look at all that make up. Someone needs to explain it to her; when the raw material is bad to begin with, there’s no way the finished product is gonna be good. Oh and now she’s trying to comb my hair. God, when will she understand, I was born fabulous. Cats aren’t internet celebrities for no reason.

Finally, she’s doing what she does best – nothing. I could use a massage. Let me go to her. Damn it, she thinks I’m a shrink. She’s telling me all her problems. I just need some good ‘ol peaceful scratching. How do I tell her I couldn’t care less about her existential crisis? Whatever, I’ll just tune her out. I’ll close my eyes and fantasize about playing with string.

Let’s go for a walk she’s saying. What am I, a dog? I’ll give her my ‘off is the general direction I’d like you to fuck’ look. Successful. Anyway she’s the one who could use some socializing. Sometimes I wonder why I am even here. Oh Mom has put out dinner for me. It’s chow time.

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Burnt Pages: An Obituary

“Thousands of books were destroyed yesterday when a fire broke out in the basement of a bookstore”

They were just books, untouched and unread. They were waiting there, to be picked up. With infinite worlds between their pages, yet to be explored. They still had the new book smell, but now they’ll never smell of aged paper. To think of the flames slowly devouring the books, word by word. There’s no worse nightmare. Each word that was a result of unbounded imagination, each story a chronicle of human race, a proof of our collective wisdom. All gone.

They’ll never know of gentle hands turning pages, they’ll never know of papercuts. They’ll never adorn any bookshelf or any bedside table.They’ll never be anyone’s prized possessions.They’ll never have folded corners, a sign of a story in progress. They’ll never have souvenir bookmarks, or pressed roses. There’ll be no personal messages, no dedications, no confessions of love and friendship, no signed notes. There’ll be no tear stains or scribbled comments. Just ashes.

Maybe the angels are building a library.

To Tattoo Or Not To

I recently got a tattoo and since getting tattooed is not everyone’s idea of fun, I get quite a few interesting reactions. The best one has to be of this little girl who refused to believe it doesn’t come off. She tried rubbing it off with her fingers, then with a cloth, and then with soap. When it still didn’t come off, she reckoned I just have to give it a few days. I found the whole thing very cute.

Another very common question to come across my way is why get something permanent? Why something so final. Now you would assume this is a question asked by the inherently commitment phobic generation of millenials, but no. It is usually asked by the people from the generation preceding the millenials. The traditionalists, for whom permanence has always been a central concept. And that’s why the question particularly intrigues me. Depending on my mood and who I’m talking to, I give varying answers. Here’s one such conversation.

I wouldn’t want to get a permanent tattoo.

Why not? The whole idea is you love something so much that you’re ready to let it be with you for life.

No but… it’s permanent!

Marriage is permanent. Why’d you get married?

 (horrified) It is not the same thing!

Technically it is. You’re committing to a person for life. It’s permanent.

But say you love a line from a Justin Beiber song and get it tattooed, you’re obviously gonna regret it few years down the line.

Say you married a person you thought was Hugh Grant from Notting Hill but he actually turned out to be Hugh Grant from Bridget Jones Diary. You’re obviously gonna regret it few years down the line.

But you’ll get bored of the same tattoo.

You’ll get bored of the same person. And unlike tattoos, you can’t simultaneously marry multiple people.

But I’ve also heard it’s dangerous… you could get AIDS.

Yeah well, maybe if the tattoo artist cheats, same as how you could get it if your partner cheats.

What if you outgrow your tattoo?

Then it’ll be a reminder of the person that I once was. Or I can get it removed. What if you outgrow your partner?

But getting a permanent tattoo removed is so painful and costs a lot. You’ll be physically scarred.

Oh and getting a divorce just so easy. And you won’t be emotionally scarred at all.

But…

Yes?

No, nothing.

Okay.

The Love Letter

She thought of writing him a letter. The task was daunting. She felt that all the paper in the world wouldn’t be enough if she had to put in words everything she felt.

She could write about the first time she met him. She would not write, ‘you had at me hello’, because he didn’t. It took time. It took the realization that their wavelengths matched. It took smiles exchanged during several small, seemingly insignificant moments. It took incessant laughter over shared jokes. It took rare proclamations of personal truths. It took long walks with the smell of salt in the air.

She could write about things she liked about him, though that list was yet to see its end. The way he removed his spectacles to rub his tired eyes. How any form of mediocrity annoyed him. The twinkle in his eyes when he discussed something that he loved. The outer guise of insensitivity. The air of self-assurance. His phone voice. How he saw the world around him as pretty photographs. The way his back arched while he was working. The way chocolate stuck to his lips. How he always knew what to say. She could go on forever. About things she liked about him and about things she wanted to do with him, to him. She wanted to explore him, mind and body.

She could write about how it was no surprise that she didn’t get what she wanted. Sometimes words are just that, words. Ego, manipulation, cynicism; the flip side is never as pretty. The smile she thought she could trust would never be just for her. Nothing she said or did would ever change that. She knew any reciprocation she felt was a farce, just her heart deluding itself. But that’s the thing about love, you fall anyway. She would write how he was never hers and yet she would take his name under her breath whenever they talked of first loves and broken hearts.

She could write about moving on, and how it’s never an option. You don’t move on, you just make peace with reality. You realize that for a moment you put the reins of your happiness in someone else’s hands and that person didn’t do a great job. It’s time to take them back. She would write about having no regrets and about the world of new possibilities that lay in front of her. The unread books in her shelf, the interesting recipe she tried out in the kitchen, the exciting new job opportunity she was contemplating about, the Euro trip she was planning with her friends, the text from a guy she’d just met, that made her heart flutter anew.

That’s when she smiled, because she realized she wouldn’t need much paper after all. Hers would probably be the shortest love letter in history.

Goodbye.