It’s the most fascinating thing for me to catch snatches of conversation that’s constantly happening all around me.
“She’s a completely heartless woman.”
“I am sorry to call you at this time but…”
“Where’s the pregnancy case?”

I am never interested in the whole conversation. Well, almost never. But these snatches, the emotion that fills the voice, sometimes the way the line just hangs in the air — either because there’s no reply or because suddenly the sound level around has dropped or because the speaker decided to talk louder than the rest — are all individual worlds for me.
The voids are all festering planets on their own.
There’s venom, there’s pain, passion, boredom, lies, excitement, defeat — so much in these voices around me and I wonder what their lives are like.
They can’t be very different from mine.
Which brings me to another kind of revelation. Of late, I’ve started realising that, essentially, all human beings are the same. Whether they’re xenophobic or old or speak another language or follow a guru who asks them to marry a Siberian who doesn’t have any English — we are all the same.
It reminds of that ironic statement I’ve often heard pepper-uppers use — “Don’t feel bad. You’re unique. Everyone’s unique.” It used to make me cringe when others had the same things as I did — dimples, balls, spine, individualism, clothes, hair, accessories. (That was before I realised I wear them much better than they do :D!) But as I grow, I realise it’s alright. Everything is. But even now I won’t buy anything I see with someone else, unless I make a great effort and actually need it.


Office party last night.
I didn’t go. I know I sound classist as hell. I couldn’t go because I’ve suddenly become aware of the PLT and PLU separation in my head. I mean, getting drunk, throwing up, groping girls who repeatedly ask you to stay away is not my idea of a good time.
And a brawl makes it just worse.

Last night I was worried if they’d think that I thought too much of myself to associate with them — this morning I am not worried. I’d rather they think I thought the world of myself than talk to anyone who pretends to be smashed and hits other people. And oh, it helps that they think I am a floozy 🙂 That’s always a good thing.


I realised many times hating the place one works in is not a symptom of the job being less than enjoyable. It’s usually a symptom of being disturbed about the place you are in life.

And many times, my own troubles seem miniscule when I see how much trouble people like Demi Moore are having. Poor cow, she’s spent more than Rs 2 crore on her body and no one but Ashton Kutcher wants her for anything! Tch.


I keep wondering about people.
I keep wondering what motivates them to do the things they do or don’t do.

Sometimes, I just sit there and look around me and it amazes me that I understand even one percent of what I am made of.

I wonder what this woman was thinking. Or going through.
Or the man in question.
And why hasn’t he filed a complaint?
It made me sad to read it.

And then I read something else and I was just wondering what the difference between both the women was. And if there was a difference. Also do I have both of those women in me?

Just wondering.

Chanced upon this old favourite of mine.



I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

— Emily Dickinson.

The rest of the collection, if you are interested, is here.

4 thoughts on “Dream-leaving

  1. Anonymous

    Road rage. Living on the edge in a city. Plain psychoness. What else could have prompted that women to hit that man? It’s cruel to say the least.As for the snake woman. She needs to get laid or get a life. She fought so hard for it because she has nothing else but her dog to live for. Keep writing.


  2. wanderstruck

    Hey-the links in your article don’t work anymore.But I like what you say. ‘hating the place one works in is not a symptom of the job being less than enjoyable. It’s usually a symptom of being disturbed about the place you are in life.’Very true.And love the Emily Dickinson poem! Must dig for such hidden treasures myself.



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