I can't be handshaky-shaky clever, mysteriously suicidal, dramatically depressed or supremely cynical and worldly wise - all the reigning female prototypes living in metros. I can't seem to fit into any of those moulds. What I excel in is conflict diffusion and inducing feelings of euphoria and it seems to come naturally.

Argument between Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader
Why do you bother me? Go to Hell!
I am your destiny. Can't you tell?
You're not my father. Eat my shorts!
Come to the dark side. Feel the force!
– Stephen Fry, The ode less travelled

Epistle
How curious your last letter was! Well-intentioned, concise, containing all the elements that appear to make up what passes among certain reference groups as a communicative effect, yet tinged throughout by what Jean-Paul Sartre is so fond of referring to as "nothingness."
– Woody Allen, Getting Even

Out of Sync. Feeling like Joseph's coat. The bastard soul. Out of Sync. Falling in the abyss of the generation gap, with nary a foothold on either bank. Flat, smack down, legs akimbo, groin touching the floor. Out of Sync. The awkward space between a handshake and a hug. Noses banging on your first kiss. Out of Sync. Turning up in jeans on the red carpet. The quadruple boobs syndrome. The name tattoo of your ex. Out of Sync. The scratched DVD, the burnt popcorn, the flat beer, the lumpy couch. Out of Sync. The black wedding dress. Clowns at a funeral. The thirteenth faerie. Doom spelled by skewed geometry. Out of Sync

You will need:
The last ray from the dying sun,
caught in a cup carved from a young rowan tree,
heated by fireflies for a night when the moon is full,
mixed with the first dew of the morning.
Drink it to see the roads that lead to Faerie.

Success is a bar of chocolate. Especially if it is 3 in the morning and you've had no dinner and the obstinate vending machine downstairs doesn't have any change and will only take crisp ten rupee notes. "Crisp" ten rupee notes are like unicorns, since for all practical purposes they serve as glorified hand wipes, exchanged from one sweaty palm to the next, in quick succession. Quite unlike their privileged 500 rupee cousins, coughed out of ATM machines with irritating frequency. Do ten rupee notes ever get to see the inside of an ATM machine? Nooooo. They are the bandhua mazdoor of the currency world. And shiny little vending machines don't like that sort of riff raff flapping around in their innards. Problem was not solved by me banging my head repeatedly on the machine's glass front. Solution was provided by the concerned office guard who emptied out his wallet of coins, which I then proceeded to jam in, with intense pleasure, down its stupid machine hole mouth. Vending machines are Satan's toys. But the power of one rupee coins compelled it and I walked away with a deliciously crumbly, half melted bar of Cadbury Crackle. aaah, sweet success.

I hate celebrities. I hate how they can't string two intelligent sentences together. I hate the fact that they can make me wait despite their Neanderthal pustule genus. i hate it that 7 pages will be devoted to their measly outpourings when there is so much else to write on. but most of all I HATE the faceless stream of humanity, the kind who laps it all up, sitting on their pots every morning. THAT is what I work for - people's toilet read. If everyone, for one blessed day stopped expecting escapism packaged as news, it would be sweet salvation. But it isn't going to happen, is it? At least not tomorrow. So let me trot along then and finish my tete-e-tete with Sush over sushi. I have already had the pleasure of almost getting to talk to adults with names like Guddu, Chee-chee, Boo-boo or Bebo and the rest of their ilk. Smita Smitten, Showbiz Kitten dies on Tuesday with this blighted cover story.

"Life's calling, where are you?" Sometimes ad lines make me laugh at their sheer absurdity. It is like asking a hamster on a wheel in a cage, where he is going.
I love that ad actually. Wouldn't it be wonderful if life did call like that. You standing at a window looking stunned at the mardi gras parade unfolding on your street.
But no, it calls in other ways. Nothing flashy – that is not its style. No, it is almost hynoptic when it throws choice morsels in odd places where you don't look for it. When you find them, you are happy. Makes you feel smart, since you picked up on something others disregarded. It is your little diamond in the rough that you polish. Sometimes you are really, really lucky and it is just that. But hell, stop being surprised if it turns yellow and citric on you.
So where am I? Right where you left me.
*Begins humming hindi song on cue* "Tujhse naraaz nahi zindagi, hairan hoon main, hairan hoon."