Bad Romance?

Emily would be here soon. Then everything in his life would start to make sense again. Peter Claasens had never understood women. He had never really tried, simply because it seemed like too much work

He had been married for fifteen years and had three children, two of them daughters, but the female world remained a dark continent for Claasens. His wife, in particular, was still a mystery to him. She had turned from the pretty, unassuming girl he had unintentionally got pregnant to a shrew who nagged him about every evening he spent away from the family home, whether it was business or otherwise. 

Claasens had to admit, if grudgingly, that his wife had some grounds for her behaviour. Through out his fifteen years of marriage he had been consistently unfaithful. He had taken great pride, however, in being discreet. Tactful. If his wife had suspicions, then that was what they had remained. He had never been careless enough to furnish her with substantiating evidence. But, there again, his looks were grounds enough for suspicion. 

The concept of looks had always puzzled Claasens : why were some people more appealing to look at than others? More desirable? Claasens was a bright man. A very bright man. He had a sharp intellect and was a natural businessman. A commercial predator. Yet people found it difficult to see past his appearance. In the workplace men either resented him or wanted to be with seen with him, female colleagues were either awkward around him or flirtatious. And when he didn't respond to flirting, they became resentful too. But he had responded. Often

It was true, of course, that his appearance had been helpful : he had supplemented his income while an accountancy student by working as a photographic model. He had been offered every job he'd ever been interviewed for. And, of course, even if he hadn't made a lot of money he became involved with a trendy set from Blankenese. And Blankenese girls usually had money to burn. Peter Claasens had learned that fortune truly favours the fair.

But his looks also insulated him from real emotion. Isolated him. 

And now he stood on the top floor of a nearly complete ScanMedia building and contemplated a career or seduction and adultery. He looked out over Hamburg's darkening skyline and thought about all of the women he had been with when he should have been with his wife. And, at that moment, he felt genuinely, completely remorseful. The reason he stood and contemplated all of the women he has known and felt sympathy for his wife was that all of that was now behind him. Something unexpected had happened to Peter Claasens : he had, at forty-two, fallen in love. From the start it had not been like his other affairs: Emily had not responded to his usual set of maneuvers and tricks; she had not fallen into bed with him. She had talked to him. She had listened to him. It was as if Emily was blind to how he looked and this gift allowed her to truly see him. And now Claasens found the periods in between seeing her were like being forced to hold your breath until your lungs screamed for air.

Emily was English, with fire-red hair and green eyes. She spoke German fluently but with the sweetest accent and she had clearly never recognized the importance of gender or grammatical case in the language. Emily was also delightfully uncoordinated and clumsy: he had literally bumped into her outside his offices. She had fallen badly and he had helped her to her feet, insisting that she come into his office for a seat. Emily had smiled sweetly and said it was her fault and she was fine, had gathered up her stuff and hurried on. Claasens had just been about to go back into his office when an impulse had prompted him to run after her. He had insisted that the least he could do was buy her a coffee. She had accepted. It had begun. 

That had been two months ago. In that short time, this dizzy English redhead had turned his whole world upside down. She had resisted becoming involved with a married man but he had insisted his marriage had been in terminal decline for some years. When she had announced that she was going back to England, Claasens had told her he couldn't live without her, that he would leave his wife and they could set up home together here in Hamburg. Yet Emily had insisted that no one should be hurt more than necessary: he should tell him wife that he had to leave, that their marriage had run its course, but not mention that he was involved with anyone else. It would be better for his wife, for the kids. It would be better for Emily and Claasens. She had even asked to see the letter he intended to send him wife and had made changes, just so that no one was hurt more than they had to be. Emily was a good person. She was much, much better than he was and when she was around him he became someone better. Someone he could like. 

Now he stood at the top of one of the biggest building projects in Hamburg outside the HafenCity and contemplated the past he was putting behind him.

'Hello, Peter.' 

He turned to see her there. The dark woolen overcoat and the beret she wore emphasized the red in her hair and the green in her eyes.

'Hello, Emily.' He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her but she put her gloved fingertips to his mouth. 

'Have you brought it?' She asked.

'Yes, I've brought it. And I changed it just as you asked. Its so like you to worry about other people. I've made no mention that I'm involved with anybody. I made the other changed you suggested too. I still think it would have been better if I told her face to face. A letter ... I just don't know...'

'May I see?'

He handed her the letter and she read through it. As Emily had suggested, Claasens told his wife that he could not go on with the way things were, that work had added to the stress, that he was so sorry for the hurt he knew his actions would cause her and the children.

'Perfect,' said Emily, folding the letter with her gloved fingers. She leaned against the metal railing that had temporarily been put up for safety reasons while the top floor of the building was completed. Claasens grabbed her elbow and pulled her back.

'You have to be careful, Emily,' he said paternally.

'This really is a beautiful building,' she said, looking down ten floors into the central atrium.

'Its meant to be a modern interpretation of an old Hamburg Kontorhaus- you know, the red-brick jobs with a huge atrium or courtyard in the middle.'

'Such a strange name,' she said in her accented German. 'What does it mean - Kontorhaus?'

'It goes back to the days of the Hanseatic League. There would be a Kontorhaur in almost every Hanseatic city in Europe : Hamburg, Bremen, Rostock, Danzig, St Petersburg. There was even a Kontor in London. Bremen and Hamburg are the only cities that are still officially Hanseatic cities.'

'And this building is meant to be like those old Hanseatic Kontor buildings?' Emily leaned and looked over the railing again.

'Yes,' said Claasens, distracted. 'Emily, stand back from the railing. This safety railing is just temporary..'
He smiled at her pushing back a strand of red hair and tucking it behind her ear. 'And you know you can be a little accident-prone. We're not even supposed to be here.'

'How high are we,' she asked, leaning further over the railing. Claasens eased her back gently.

'I don't know - four hundred meters, I'd say.'

'That's a lot of forensic distance,' she said absently.

'What did you say, Emily?' She stood up and turned on him.

'I said its a lot of forensic distance. It was one of the first things I learned: to place as much forensic distance between myself and the point and moment of death.'

Claasens frowned in confusion. He didn't understand what Emily was saying. And he couldn't understand why her German grammar and accent were now perfect. Her gloved hand sliced up like a blade and smashed into the side of his neck, just below his jaw line and behind his ear. The blow somehow made the world dimmer and he felt his legs weaken beneath him. Claasens could not work out what was happening but moved to grab her. She dodged him, moving with a speed and precision he thought her incapable of. The edge of her hand hit him again, on exactly the same spot, and this time his legs folded. Emily stepped to one side and expertly used Claasen's own momentum to propel him over the safety railing.

He didn't even scream on the way down. 

She leaned over the railing and looked into the vast well of the atrium. Claasens lay broken on the flagstones nine stories below, a crimson halo around his head. It looked to Emily as if he had landed on his handsome face.

Emily took the letter he handed her - the letter she guided him to write - and threw it over the edge, allowing it to flutter down onto the atrium floor.

Día Siete (Day 7) - Weigh In

I'm pretty sure I've gained the ONE kg I lost three days ago. Thanks to excessive eating out and a horrific sleeping pattern. (read no sleep thanks to work, Halloween madness and the festive season in general!)

Here goes nothing.

 -----

I survive!!
It's not as bad as I imagined.
I gained 500 gms.

Weight as of Day 7 = 69.5 kgs.
Days to Goa = 53
Weight to Lose = 5.5 kgs.

Here's to an additional 'healthy eating' challenge (eeeyuck!)

Cheerio!

Día Seis (Day 6)

My motivation appears to have called it quits.

Not cool.

But, I think beaches and I think swimsuit and then *shudder* thunder thighs!

AACK!

And I finish my 7km run.

Going to hit the sack. F*ck the shower.

Zzzzz...

Days to Goa = 54

Weight to Lose = 5 kgs.

Día Cinco (Day 5)

I almost miss my work out today.
It is my first day at a new company and it is a long one. I get home at 10.30 pm and I'm exhausted.
But I manage to get in a 40 minute run that leaves me spent.
It takes me about 30 seconds to fall asleep once I hit the bed.

My updates are going to get shorter and shorter as the weeks go by and my work load increases.

But iloveit! :)

Night night!

Days to Goa = 55

Weight to Lose = 5 kgs.

Día Cuatro (Day 4)

 9: 23 am.
I make the mistake of eating a heavy breakfast (in my defense, dinner was like a DAY ago!!) , but I have to weigh myself regardless.
I remove every "heavy" article of clothing that might add to the scales and I get on the weighing machine.

Wait.. For.. It..

69 kgs!! WOOHOO!! That's 1 kg lost in 3 days of running! I'm a woman on a mission! This is going to be HISTORIC people!

And then a certain someone bursts my bubble, "You're lighter during the mornings and evenings, weigh yourself in the middle of the day"

Screw you.

I lost 1 kg, whatever time of day!

With an OD of enthusiasm and joy, I cover 4.5km today and take 30 minutes to do it.
I'm in over drive.

Lets hope I get up tomorrow, because right now my legs feel like jelly.

Days to Goa = 56

Weight to Lose = 5 kgs.

Día Tres (Day 3)

I'm getting into the cycle of things. Knowing I have to spend the day running errands and having lunch with the girls, I get up early for the walk.

Tomorrow is weigh-in day, I'm excited and nervous. In my enthusiasm I run faster and longer. And then I slip on a open shoe lace and the world spins.
That fall hurts.
My ego hurts more.
Thank god no one sees that, but the neighbors downstairs probably hear it and snort into their Earl Grey. (bloody prunes!)

I survive the epic fall and start over.

I cover a distance of 3.5 km.
I feel like a world champ or Snookie at a club , I fall down and bounce right back up!

Days to Goa = 57

Weight to Lose = 6 kgs.

Día Dos (day 2)

I was determined to get today's walk done and out of the way.
And also a part of me wanted to push further, to run this time and for a longer distance.

So I lock myself up again. Play music. And go.

The thing with a treadmill, I discover, is that every 10 seconds that burns one calorie (at 6kmph) feels like an ETERNITY!!! and every minutes that covers 100mts takes FOREVER!!

But I push through and complete a 2km walk + run :D !!!
Hallelujiah!
I CAN DO THIS SHIT!

Or so I thought.

For anyone who thinks a two kilometer distance is child's play, you've clearly never walked a day in your life and survive on watching international athletics events on the sports channel.

Here's the pattern I'm following - Walk at 5.5kmph for 5 mins. Then run at 9.5kmph for 2 mins. And repeat cycle 5 times. (35 min work out)

 I burned 279 calories.

oh AND i'm eating everything under the freaking sun! (had mcdonald's for lunch!)

Seriously need to up my game! (and the govt needs to ban home delivery!)

Days to Goa = 58

Weight to Lose = 6 kgs.

Primer Día (Day 1)

5.47pm

Thanks to my doting father, we have a treadmill at home (and quite honestly, i wouldve never considered taking up this challenge if I had to go to a gym or even step out of the house for exercise) 

Step 1 - I snoop around and find my old sneakers, throw on a pair of sweats and I am ready to take on the "machine".

Step 2 - I close and bolt the door to the "gym room" (which really is the teeny tiny study converted into exercise space), armed with my bottle of water and ipod - lets do this!

Step 3 - 10 minutes of walking at 5.5kmph, I'm not tired and I don't feel exercised either. But my strategy is to take it slow and steady and not go crazy over the top on day 1. I decide to get a little daring and up the speed to 6kmph - now we're getting somewhere. 30 minutes and 1.5km later, I call quits.

I burn 157 calories.

That's like three peanuts or something isnt it????

Days to Goa = 59

Weight to Lose = 6 kgs.

Woman Vs Weight

For someone who hasn't dared to check her weight since the forceful 12th grade medical check up at school, I've been ignorantly blissful for a while now. Having gone through periods of excessive weight obsession to lazily not doing anything about it and reaching for the last donut, I believe I've exhibited bi polar behavior more times than Silver on 90210!

Long story short, I don't want to torture my best friends over the love handles (which really is the politest way of referring to what is saved up pizza and chips and cocoberry - notice how I say 'saved' indicating that it will come of use at some point - I am a closet hoarder; yes, of food :P), the thunder thighs and the belly (though as one suggested I could just get a t-shirt that says "Siva Kaneswaran is my baby daddy" and be done with it). 

The straw that broke the camel's back?  A hospital trip two weeks ago to my horror led to weight check. After surviving my "oh-my-god-why-did-noone-break-that-awful-machine-before-I-came-in" moment, the result was as follows- 

Height - 6 Feet

Weight - 70 Kgs

Now, I'm not obese or over weight. But I'm not in shape either. We all have our problem areas, mine just seem to be in multiples. I have what is called the quintessential Indian "pear" shape. Skinny arms and torso; problem steps in because I have an ass (and a half) and long, long legs.(that are desperate for shape of any kind really).

SO.   

THE CHALLENGE - To Be Swimsuit fit for Goa in December. KILOGRAMS TO LOSE - 6

DRESS SIZES TO REDUCE - 2 ( From a 9 to a 7) 

DAYS - 60

DEADLINE - December 24

THE METHOD - Walking and Running. 

I had to pick the simplest and easiest exercise, with my less than average will power and extreme laziness, I need something less daunting and more do-able. The treadmill is my new best friend. 

Making this attempt public hopefully will ensure that I finish the task at hand and maybe even help some other restless yet lazy soul out there :)

D-Day initiates today. 

Update if I survive, and If I don't, know that it ended with me trying. 

Cheers!

The Art of Stalking

Introduction

Ancient seers suggested we could latch onto anything with fibers of our "will". In their worldview, all is energy - including conscious thought - and so the old sorcerers suggested we can connect with people, things, situations, position, etc. across space-time by maintaining our consciousness on them.

Anthropologist Carlos Castaneda elaborates on this idea in his books on Mesoamerican sorcery.

"Thinking makes it so..." say the philosopher and so "stalking" follows a thought until it becomes true.

The "art of stalking" is a lot like "metaphysical fishing": Imagine luminous fibres of your will as fishing line linking you to whatever you desire. Once touched by your "will", your desire becomes an extension of you. "Reel it in", remembering the wisdom of the ages: "Line too tight... line break; line too loose.. fish get away."

Stalking is a magickal art that requires a perfect blend of ruthlessness, cunning, patience and sweetness. Because it transcends space and time, its only requirements are the will and the skill of the stalker.

The art can be practiced by any person who's life energy has attained a specific cohesion or "intensity". This cohesion is an aspect of the motivating force and it's also a quality of will - somewhat like the inner fire of passion - which can be perceived as the sparkle of light in someone's eyes.

Attaining passion's particular intensity of light lets a person extract the maximum from any situation because the universe reponds to the glow by releasing the "attractive force" - one of its 4 fundamental forces.

The key to mastering the art of stalking is "controlled folly". Folly refers to the human habit of relying on an inner dialogue to explain the outer world. Controlled folly is very really the practice of controlled deception, i.e. a sophisticated, disciplined and artistic way of remaining totally detached, even while in the thick of things in order to project the spin you want on an event.

Controlled folly requires consciously linking with a "creating intent" which then provides the mood to contain the required "intensity" of energy.

"Creating intent" is the objective predetermination that governs the art of stalking; it extends beyond an individual stalker's perceptual limits and reaches everyone and everything that can respond. When subjectively linked with "creating intent", stalkers can detect an exquisite perfume, the recognition of which adds joy and humor to their intensity.

There are 3 precepts to the art of stalking:

a) Everything that surrounds us is an unfathomable and Infinite mystery;

b) We have a duty to unravel this mystery, knowing we never will;

c) Reconciling them to unravel these infinite potential, stalkers take their rightful place in the unfathomable and consider them a mystery as well. Stalkers are part of the whole, equal to everything worthy of all, and able to connect to anything, anywhere.

There are 7 principles to the art of stalking:

1. Choose your battleground;

2. Disregard everything that is unnecessary;

3. The finite game is part of an Infinite game - Be ready to make your last stand " here and now"; but not inanely, rather aligned with a "creating intent";

4. Remain detached, calm and unafraid - leave room for the Infinite;

5. When faced with odds you can't deal with, retreat within yourself for a moment to reassess , and adjust but don't drift away from your link with "creating intent";

6. Compress time; don't waste an instant;

7. Never push yourself to the front; don't act like you're in charge… act.

There are 4 kinds of stalkers

Everyone is constantly filling various levels of need. By attaining sufficient "light intensity" a person consciously becomes a stalker and then can learn how to magically add quality to their life. Awareness of the science, personal radiance and practice are the only factors that determine one's potential.

The four kinds of stalkers are basic personality types:

Nice ones

Very fluid personalities. People who are serviceable, concerned, domestic, humane, sweet but not-nurturing. They need direction because they can't function alone. They are perfect assistants, secretaries, companions, aides, etc. They can stalk because they have the aura of being likable.

Nasty ones

Self-centered personalities. People who are petty, vindictive, envious and jealous. They are concerned exclusively about their own needs, talk themselves up and demean others. They expect people and situations to conform to their will. They are petty farts who'd kill to be true leaders. They stalk from behind the cowl of being disliked or victimized by others.

Indifferent ones

Neither nice nor nasty personalities.

People who serve no one and yet don't impose themselves on others. They'll have exalted opinions of themselves derived from dreaming, planning and wishing thinking. They also waste their extraordinary talents by hoping things would happen and waiting to be discovered!!. They have a facility for creating the illusion that wonders are about to happen to them. They stalk from behind smoke and mirrors.

Magical ones

Anyone from the 3 previous groups who masters the art, fulfilling their own needs to then helps others develop their talent.

Source :

http://www.consult-iidc.com/english/training/stalking.htm

Lucid

We are playing in the park, it is nestled in a valley that reminds me of the Alps and Heidi. The breeze is soft but it is sighing.  

I look to horizon. Barbed wire hazes my view. Soldiers. Hundreds of them. Thousands now. They are multiplying. There is the German Army. 

Now they are down the hill and chasing after us. She tells me to run, run as fast as I can. I start and I trip. I look back mud streaked, they are almost here. Screaming friends and crying babies. Were are all the big people?

And then I felt it, the scalding scorch of the bullet in my back and the sinking sensation of knowing, no one is going to come for us.  

This is the holocaust. . .

08:20

I was dreaming.

Chapter 4

Two years hence. 

Eyes open. She saw something. No. It is just a dream. He isn't real. It is just like all the other dreams.

 Except now she calls them flashbacks. They are littered with new faces. New faces to this life. But she has met them before and this time around she doesn't claw away the thought.  

It ruminates and she lets it. 

So begins her search for this face and the story behind it

Chapter 3

She is Aminat. And she is a professional assassin.

Aminat works for The Agency, and takes her orders from Bogi, an ex military,Scandinavian contract killer.

What follows is two years of extensive traveling, violence and successful assignments for The Agency.

Through all of this, she does not know who she really is or who she was in her previous "life".

 And frankly, she doesn't give a damn, this is too much fun.

 There is work to be done. People to be killed. Someone's revenge to be taken.

Chapter 2

She starts creating herself. Word by word, inch by inch.

 

A personality formed from a hundred; borrowing from people she encounters on the street, outside the bistro, in the mega mart. She does not know them and they do not know her. 

Six months of subconscious research later,she can be who ever you want her to be; who ever she needs to be.

Chapter 1

Eyes flutter open. She is lying on a four poster.  The ceiling fan creaks. She panics. Sleep paralysis. 

It is a modern room if you ignore the 16th century bed sprawled across most of it. There is a picture frame on the bed side table. It is empty.

She tries to remember, to think of where she is and how she got there. But she cannot remember-

Anything. 

The Perils of Driving a '97 Daewoo

So it's 9pm and I'm driving home from work in my trusty dusty Daewoo - even have time to pick up a box on Cinnabons on the way! (For the unawares; cinnamon rolls are the MOST AMAZING food ever created!! And you get the yummiest kind at Cinnabon)

So here I am driving home on a week night, the weather's nice so I switch off the ac (also cause I get a 6km/litre mileage with the ac but hey! who's counting right)

I'm about 20 minutes from home when it happens - and mind you there is no car, nope, not ONE car that can complete this feat but the Daewoo, trust me you - there is no car but a Daewoo that will "over heat" in the middle of the MONSOON!

So she stalls, right at a very busy red light - and this route i chose to take home today, is the dirty, shady part of town - my version of a short cut.

FACT ABOUT DELHI TRAFFIC - People will stop their cars, honk at you, scream at you, keep honking even though CLEARLY you've got your distress lights on and are trying to figure out whats happened to your car!

The will not navigate their car and move along, nope, offering help can only be extracted at gun point.

Back to being stuck at the red light in Jasola (with a beat up mall a km down the road, and i can see the "BTW" hoarding flashing and then i think of tikkis and chaat and gol guppas and contemplate abandoning my Daewoo for some papri chaat but i refrain, i'm on a diet after all)

PASSER BY 1 : OHO MAIIDUMMM KE HOVAAT HAII??

PASSER BY 2 : *whistles* GADDI KHARAB GADDI KHARAB, GHAR KAISE JAAYEGA AB

CO PASSENGER OF PASSER BY 2 : "HUM LE CHALAVAT HAIN"

:|

AND I DESPERATELY start dialing my folk to come get me or at least tell me how to fix it! And so they do, I try it all , from filling more paani/coolant, jump starting it, push starting it - even found a mechanic who could do shit with it either.

Then come along Skinny McSkinnerson and Creepy McCreepeson, managing to achieve smiling and mock concern simultaneously. With their gold chains and satin paisley shirts.

CREEPY - "HELLU MASELF DINESHH PANDAYE, I CAN SEE IT YOU ARE HAVE SOME CARS TROUBLE"

SKINNY - "YES WE SAW IT OURSELF"

CREEPY - "SHOULD I CALL MECHANIC. I HAVE MANY THINGS. I CAN GIVE YOU "

(i kid you not, they were yelling. Do i LOOK deaf?? :/)

Me- "Nai nai its okay, I know what the problem is plus my dad's on his way - he's the mechanic really"

SKINNY - "BUT DINESHH HAS EVERYTHING YOU NEED"

He then proceeds to give me the "dont upset Dinessss" look

Me - "No seriously , thank you very much, but my dad really should be coming any minute"

CREEPY - OKAY BUT IF YOU WANTING IT MODELING ALSO HERE IS MY CARD, YOU KIN CALL ME ANYTIME DAY OR LATE NITE ALSO"

and he shoves his card into my palm and they both hurry off thumping each other on the back for a successful interaction.

I wish i had kept that card.

Next thing I know, Im surrounded by 8 cops, the real tobacco chewing kind (wish we had donut eating cops in this country, the roads and walls would be a lot cleaner i say) asking me if I had been in an accident -

Following are the questions asked/statements made in quick succession -

"Where papers?"

"Do you have license?"

"When this happen? "

"Who hit?"

"Anyone kill?"

"Who call ambulance?"

"Where is doosri gaadi?"

"What you r hiding?"

"Lets go police station"

And this point I want to faint, I cant even pretend faint, cause I havent practiced it enough. Ugghh.

Friendly mechanic decides to try one last time and pushes the car while i try to start it - we figure the starter is jammed and that the radiator fan isn't working hence the car was over heating.

During this entire time I manage to accumulate an audience of 15 boys and men; all on their bikes either parked on the side of the road close by or standing about a foot from my car leaving no room to move and all of them just staring - they dont say anything just stare. And that how puts horrifying thoughts in my head! (incidentally I have the wildest imagination known to man)

Finally, my dad (secretly SUPERDAD) arrives and fixes everything in a jiffy! And gives our audience such a beautifully enacted verbal trashing that it brings tears to my eyes. :D i then drive home and i park my lovely daewoo in her garage, hand the keys over and vow to travel by public transport for the rest of my life.

Amen.