A long post..and I feel terribly boring and old.

...And of course writing is supposed to be therapeutic. and I've felt like offloading a very crowded mind, and musings that came in fits and starts. But..the inability to express myself has become a real fear now.

I express too late. or I express too little. Greet mails, which I have been waiting with fervent prayers and buried tensions, with a regular hmm..and shut myself in when people outside my head revel in my glory. I introspect too little. React too late.

Srinagar happened. And despite piled up work commitments and the chaos therein of dealing with cranky others, coiled up self, technological breakdowns, meals served late, being taken for granted, sulky evenings and corners I painted myself into - it was beautiful. First night, being in a hotel with dark corridors, door with broken latch and bathroom floors not witstanding, I think I liked being by myself in a completely alien space. Brought a lot of insecurities to the fore and, I think, inspite of all my attempts to push them beneath the book I was reading, I dealt with a couple.

Srinagar also made me realize how much our rational frameworks are flawed and stereotypical. Dealing with people, hiding 'inside' yourself is never easy. Providing ground for discussions on media modules and political perspectives were both scary and revealing. Four words generating completely different understandings and analysis from different people. There is an arrogance of victimhood that is real and boxes in the head run deep. The two plus two rationale does bring out multiple choice responses.

Srinagar, as I discovered, also does not shut down at sundown. The city comes alive on the Boulevard, at Chhalli point and every turn of the road. Kebabwalas, with aromas announcing their presence a mile away; bhuttawalas and the JK police, replete with their bulllet-proof jackets - each interspersed every five feet. There were three blasts that occurred the first day, but we needed worried relatives from other corners of the country calling, to inform us. The city, does not allow blasts, to bring life to a standstill. Or perhaps, if they allowed life to stop with each blast, they wouldn't have a life at all. Friends my age in Srinagar, who took me out when they felt I was working too hard, told me in passing, that their generation can identify the type of gun on hearing the gunshots.

I looked at each person I passed - our shikarawala (who we jolted out of blissful slumber at 5am), a friend who grew up in the region and then moved to Delhi, another young female friend (who my stereotyping head greeted with a pleasant surprise when I saw her driving around the city late one evening) - wondering how the two decades of violence had affected each of them, their perceptions and their families.

My work the last one year has made me tremendously aware of conflict and violence, and the extent to which it seeps into people's lives - insiduously or abruptly. Social relations, friendships, evenings out, faith, within and without were dictated by the sides you took, or perhaps that which you didn't.

Srinagar was also Dal Lake at 5am and the floating market. Eggplants and lotus at 5.30am. Smiles and scales. Humdrum ran into exotic. Cafe Arrabica was another favourite. Penne and expresso with dates on the next table. It beat Big Chill any day. Greta Garbo and high beams.

So this week is my last at work. I never thought I had the capacity to stick it out for this long. 9-5 deskjobs were not my thing. I didn't thing they were cool enough. Sure, I had my problems with this place - the underbelly (which I was initially naive enough to believe, didn't exist), and the dynamics. I learnt how to delete the extra also's and how to count backwards. I met people from places I read about.. and from those that I had stubbornly fixed notions about. I learnt to look outside my own head and I learnt to think. And I've also learnt that I can write 16,000 words in three days.

The past two weeks I've made my peace with so many things. With my security blanket(s) being out of reach. With being blue and red. With playing ostrich. With being thin. With bad songs on the radio. With compulsive liars. With empty vessels. With birthdays.

I had a terrible case of the birthday blues this year. and age still has nothing to do with it. But birthday surprises, and hearing from people I thought had flown to Pluto, treated me well. I think am re-thinking birthday notions now.

I still haven't figured out a lot of things that I have been attempting to deconstruct for the past month. Black and white are so much easier to deal with than grey and slate. I wish I had the luxury of distance - observing people as subjects makes life and introspection a lot simpler.

Also, perennial "PMS" is my current project.