Space. And in a city like Bombay, the constant need for it. Let's face it, while a chic studio apartment does come with its perks, it also tends to leave you with sense of claustrophobia. The desire to once in a while wake up and not have the kitchen sink stare you in the face.

And then there's the 2BHK, where once in a while you can play hide and seek with yourself, and sit for hours and stare at the walls, and count the shadows that bounce back at you.

In relationships, as in square feet, space is the most important criterion.

But we're always battling with how much of it is enough, and how much is too close for comfort.

I've been having chats with friends who double ride, and each of them have come up with a more than interesting opinion of space. 

I've come to the conclusion, that there are two kinds of people in the world. The ones who like to be held tightly while they sleep and the kinds who like holding.

But if you look closely, you'll find the answers staring you blandly in the face. It's the people who like being held, who feel that space in a relationship is a waste of furniture. They feel, that the closer you can snuggle in, and find the nook the better off you will be. However, for the ones who like holding, space is a given. They'll roll you over when they need it, and when they find that you've rolled over way too much, they'll pull you back. Space, then becomes a matter of convenience- like having a studio apartment and a 2BHK, all at once.

I feel that space is that much needed feeling that actually brings people closer. In any relationship. 

Living a thousand miles away from all the people I love, I understand space and the perks it comes with. When I was in college and staying with my parents, the only thing I wanted to do, was be by myself. And vice-versa. 

Space is also a mind game. Sometimes there's just too much in your head and you keep drifting further and further from everything that keeps you together. And sometimes, there's none. 

Either ways, you're choking. 

Cut. Cut. Cut.

When I was growing up, there was a little book that was passed down by my parents to my eldest sister, from her to my middle sister and from her to me. It was bland in design, blue and green, with white bold typography that read 'after 10+2 what?'. In those days, the book was considered the bible that parents held on to, to make sense of what apart from the conventional professions could their children do. An MBA was a hot favourite, which gave the regular B.Com courses in college that much deserved ego boost.

I however, had decided at age 5 (when I got gifted my first doctor set) that I wanted to be a surgeon. As the years passed by, my vision got clearer and I narrowed my cutting skills down to being a cardiothoracic surgeon. All this however, was set to change. The day I decided that cutting film seemed less squeamish to me, my parents searched high and low for the book. In a Dusty trunk numbered 76, was where mecca was found. They read and no matter how they tried, the book could not help make sense of their youngest daughter's wayward mind. But being the people they are, they let me go and do my own thing. Three years down the line, I decided I wanted to cut something else- words, copy, more words. By this time, 10+2 had found itself another owner. After all, I had at that time narrowed down to what I wanted to do.

The years in advertising fly by, especially when for most of your time, you sit gazing idly at a blinking cursor, waiting in vain for something to appear, so you can start cutting. These days, I stare at blinking mail buttons, waiting for my team to send me something to start cutting.

People, chests, film, copy- I cut them all (some in person, some in theory) but I'm still waiting to learn how to cut something else- Time.

Offices in advertising have all kinds of time schedules. There are those who walk in at 930 and leave at 530, come hell or high water. Those who come in at 845 and leave at 530. Those who come in at 1130 and leave at 530. Those who come at 1130 and leave at 2. And those like me, who stroll in at 1100 and can never decide when to leave. Truth be told, I'm bloody jealous of those who want to get home early, because they have something planned, or someone waiting.

Most of my friends, have something I call a fixed pattern, so many hours to something, so many to someone else. But me no.

I'm always trying to find excuses- traffic, work, artworks, deadlines etc etc. Because I don't know what to do once I get back home. I OD on TV during the weekend, and if I reach home during prime time, then dinner time would be left surfing.

Today, a thought struck me. Maybe someone, should have written another book that helped not to plan your career but helped you plan your life. Helped you decide between the things you can do, the ones you can't and the ones you shouldn't. Guaranteed hot-seller at your local crossword or ebay.

Such however is not the case, and people like me, (and I hope there are more like me out there) are left gazing, wondering and pondering on how to cut.

Cut time. Sometimes short. Sometimes in half. Sometimes long.

What are you holding on to?

The past? The present? Or the future?

I call them bubbles. And I believe each one of us lives inside one or more of them, at one or more stages of our lives. Some of us refuse to take that step into the future, thinking that one day the past will come back to life. Some of us, want to run away into the future, thinking that the past cannot follow us there. I've been having long chats with many of my friends, and the more I speak with them, the more I realise that most of them, most of us don't want to live in the present.

What is it about these three distinct phases in our lives that have us tightly wound around their little fingers? Why is it that everything is either decided based on the past, or is planned for the future? Why are we so scared to accept our present, and work on it, because tomorrow it will be our past, and it will decide our future.

There's a constant crib amongst most of us- things are never in our hands. In retrospect, they are. But because we bind ourselves so much to things that are far away, we refuse to accept what we have, and we constantly crave for what we had, or what we hope we might have.

Is looking in the mirror that bad? Since when did we lose the ability to look ourselves in the eye. And shake hands with what we see, because that's all we'll ever have.

I've spent years, months, thinking about what I could have done to change the past. Off late, I've spent hours on thinking about what I can do to plan the future. Why?

A wise, wise person once said, today will soon be yesterday and tomorrow will soon be today.
In principle, yes. In reality- ha ha ha.

So is it cynicism? Is it age? Or is it just me?

Intelligently single

There are many things, that life teaches you. And the ones that take home in your head are the ones that are life altering. Certain conversations and discussions, no matter how random they may be, leave such a lasting impression that litres of turpentine seem insufficient. One of them being that women who are intelligent, don't find men.
Which means the dumber a woman, the greater her chances of landing Mr. Right. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not on a feminist trip here. But on deeper probing, I figured that maybe it is right. (no offence to all my happily married, almost married, going to get married girlfriends- you're the best) All our growing up lives, we're taught that intelligence is a virtue, it's what will set you apart from them. But as we grow up, intelligence starts becoming a vice. Especially if you're in the singles market. Maybe it shows on your face, maybe it scares the 'smarter' species off.
Why?
Are men today so insecure that they'd settle for a great face and the right statistics that could just as well be stuffed with hay? Or is it that they don't like their intelligence, their points of view questioned, and they love having the last word? It's funny really, some years ago, a good friend of mine told me, that conversation was the biggest turn on- maybe that's what made him and his wife click- that's what made them rise higher than just being an ordinary couple to being great partners. I agree. I know her, and she's smart. Very smart. And my friend- well he's just plain lucky to have her in his life. And on many heart pouring sessions, he's admitted to not being as intelligent as his wife- and hell, that's what he loves the most about her.
I feel that what men overlook is that, one day or the other, the great looks and the gym-toned body will all die out and all that will be left are two chairs on a balcony, and two people sharing a cup of tea. And if you have nothing to talk about at that point- you're headed towards doomsville. Or you're already there. But just a little dumb to figure that out.
Imagine, waking up in the morning, setting aside the 'sweeties' and the 'babies' and talking about what's happening in the world. Imagine, having a partner who can kick your ass when it comes to world issues and not mind getting her's kicked, if she gets the facts all messed up.
In the interim however, I'm happy being single. And not having to worry about toning it down. And I'm quite sure there are a lot of women out there who feel the same way.
And a lot of men, who don't.
To them- my apologies.

Vanishing Toothbrushes

Till about a fortnight ago, a sleek white and blue pepsodent toothbrush sat content in a sea green porcelain holder. It was visited morning and evening, (cockroaches and spiders barring) and it liked to believe that those few minutes were the happiest in its otherwise bristled existence. While it sat there patiently, it pondered over many things. Like the fate of the thinning bar of soap, the squeezed out of breath toothpaste tube and the floss thread on its last legs. Surrounded by so much vanity, it felt lonely. And it felt bored.

Until one day, it was joined by two new toothbrushes. And then a third. Suddenly, it had things to do, and people to speak with. And like the umpteen boxes of scrubs it too had company.

The joys of the toothbrush were innumerable. Fighting for space inside the sea green porcelain holder for one.

Loneliness takes on a totally different meaning, especially if you're a toothbrush. You know you're dispensable, and that someday the pretty bristles on your head won't be as comforting as they once were. But the same changes when you have company. After all, who better than another toothbrush to really understand how you feel.

The next fifteen days were the best that blue and white ever had. The four of them laughed together, whispered about the not-so-friendly. And then one day, one by one, the first two left. There were no weepy farewells, just a few drops of water, hastily shaken off, before being squeezed into the dark corners of a toilet bag. That's what happens to toothbrushes who travel a lot.

The third was the last to go, it's farewell different, wrapped in a plastic bag that belonged to a soap that was snooty. And smart enough to know, that lying on it's tummy meant lesser space for number three. In the company of the snooty soap, number 3 would forever loose its essence- and take on another different one.

Blue and white was once again left all alone. The bristles, saddened looked down and weary, and one by one, the last drops of water shed. And it was just a matter of time, and blue and white was the last to go.

Bubble Wrap

Years ago, when we were kids, the happiest moment was something new coming home. A new TV, mixie, anything. In those days, TV didn't come with 100 channels and a mixie didn't mean a thing- but we still looked forward to their arrival. All thanks to those small little bubbles they came wrapped in- bubble wrap. How much we loved bursting each one of them. My elder sister always had her go at them first and left the remainder for us lesser mortals. How systematically we sat and burst them. In a straight line, one by one.

Amazing, how that teeny weeny plastic balloon would make you feel. Years later, when I started working, bubble wrap was available much more easily. For starters, there were no elder sisters and agencies, get loads of pretty bubble wrapped showreels. So there I was, in my bubble wrapping heaven- stress busting my way to the next headline. The feeling was always the same- beautiful.

But somewhere in the middle, playing with all those sheets of bubble wrap, I got trapped in a bubble myself. And I promised myself that the day that bubble would burst, would be the end of all things beautiful. How funny are the ways of the human mind, one moment you're bursting your way to freedom and the next, you're trying every possible trick in the world, to make sure your pretty little bubble doesn't explode. But bubbles have a life of their own you know, and try as you may, they have to burst. After all, they're just filled with air and trapped air must escape.

I, Me, Myself

A few weeks and a very recent post ago, an observation was brought to my notice. It was on my writing, being self-obsessed. The writer in me, being self-obsessed. Thankfully, the comment came from my favourite critic, and the only one capable of surviving after passing such remarks. I was confused. To the point that I read and re-read everything that I've posted. And the truth was sharply staring me in the face. Yes, my writing revolved around me. But then again, isn't that what it's suppossed to be? The writer in you drawing from the person in you. So, I went back, maimed ego in hand, to the critic and asked- why would you say something like this? The answer came pat- because I've read your diaries, and here, you're writing for people, not for yourself.

After many days of pondering, ego-pampering, self obsessing, and most importantly, thinking, I am back. But the question still remains at large in my head. Do we spend too much time thinking about ourselves and what others will think? Do we draft and re-draft words to convey the desired message? Have we stopped waiting for people to form their own opinions, and have we started forcing our own world-views down other peoples throats? As a writer, I think yes.
As a writer, I think we've stopped writing. In advertising it's easy- sell fairness soap to sec b, sell washing machine to sec a and b, sell superb pre-paid connections to sec c, and let it be known to all that India is a force to reckon with, and that small time India is blooming. In life, it isn't.
In life, it's always about me. What I think. What I believe. What I feel. What I know. But is anyone really interested? It's not like there's a vacant space in some random kitchen waiting for my beliefs to fill it up.

Has the need to prove our intellect, gone beyond the desire to tell a story? Is writing just another form of showing someone, how much of what you know, so that over a random beer, you bask in a shallow halo that screams 'look at me'.