You didn’t always like them. At times they were too sentimental, too weird, too noisy, too something-or-the-other. Yet, they made you smile on days that you needed it. But as the years pass, you forget — perfections and imperfections both. Until one day, you unexpectedly stumble upon one again. And as you are busy making new memories, a million older ones sneak up on you.

Isn’t it amazing how some songs remain with you for years together? You never think of them during all that time. Yet one day many eons later, you hear a bit of the interlude playing somewhere, or catch someone singing it, and find yourself humming along like it was a tune from yesterday. You remember every variation, every word, every obscure little thing about it that you never heard consciously, even the first time around. And the goosebumps wash over you much like the visiting memories you never knew you had.

Like someone you thought you forgot, but instantly recognize. From the twinkle in their eyes to the crinkle in their smile. From the tum-dee-dum notes in the prelude, to the variations in the rhythm. From the distinct way they laugh to the way a certain word is sung .. all the li’l nuances that turn a forgettable song into an unforgettable memory.

And in that music you search for yourself — the you from yesterday that laid the foundations for the you of today. Breaking up the song into little pieces, you look amongst them for the life you lived — a simpler, worry-free you from the past, frozen in a few moments of a melody.

Some songs are like old friends. They bring back memories. They make you reminisce. Fondly, wistfully. And like silent friends, they stay with you for life, reminding you from time to time, of who you once were.

‘Look at all these newbies that dot the landscape’, he thought. ‘Not even one of them has my charisma or my style. Or my gelled 80mph haircut. Or a dancing daddykins. And above all — a high-profile soap-making sister.’ Depressed, he sat in front of the computer humming ‘nikamma kiya is Bollywood ne ..’ ‘Ooooh! Let me Google myself!’, said he. Everyone’s allowed a vanity trip, after all. Firing up a browser, he typed in — ‘Tushshar Kapoor’. ‘Damn that Vashu Bhagnani and his numerological fundas‘, he muttered.

One of the results was a blog. He eagerly clicked on the link only to be rudely shocked. ‘What do they mean I cannot act?! And that if I was the last man left on earth with the last woman, she’ll mutate and split into two beings rather than be with me?! They can’t do this to me! I shall teach them a lesson!’, he thought, picking up his phone and pressing the speed-dial button 1. ‘Daddy! Somebody doesn’t like me! I wanna sue him!‘.

Tomorrow, that blogger could be me. And Tusshar Kapoor could be .. well .. Tusshar Kapoor.

I may be indulging in my usual silliness, but this is no laughing matter. This is more of an issue to be hopping raving mad about. I am sure, most of you have already heard of the recent appalling developments in the blog world about the IIPM matter. I could write an irate rant about it, but there are others who have said it much better. For those of you just catching up, Amit has a complete roundup of happenings, Neha takes it international at Global Voices, and our folks at DesiPundit are tracking all updates.

It’s a lot of links but please read them all, if you can. And if you are concerned about this topic’s ramifications, please link to it on your blogs and help publicize it. This distasteful issue needs more MSM attention and as bloggers and blog readers we can do our part in spreading the word. Kudos to Gaurav and Rashmi, and a big pat on the back for the blogosphere’s solidarity.

They say a million monkeys with a million keyboards can generate a masterpiece. A million monkeys did a lot more than that. Yes, nicely timed with the Dusshera season and all — a million monkeys also helped wipe out the big bad guy, and we can do it again. So what if this time around he has a ponytail?

‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry‘, they say.

But does love also mean never having to feel sorry?

Okay I promise. This is the last time I will mention Shilpa Shetty and blogging in the same post. Three posts in a row is a bit too much even for me. But as Mark Twain says — Better a broken promise than none at all.

So I wrote a post about giving and forming impressions in the blog world, based on Sharanya’s interesting analysis. Yes we are back to interesting. Of course, the wise-ass in me cannot resist looking for humor in every situation, so I turned it into this elaborate whoop-de-doo about different responses and the potential impressions they give.

In hindsight (no it doesn’t mean I was checking out someone’s ass), I realize this may have given Sharanya the impression that I am offended ‘cos she has apologized. Now apologies are something I take very seriously, so I feel the need to clarify some things from my end. I have already done so in a comment response, but for the sake of all those readers who avoid my commentspace like I avoid Sumeet Saigal movies, here is a repost of what I said, with some minor edits —

You know, I was thinking. That courtroom scene I talked about in my earlier post in which I was the hapless heroine? On second thoughts, I think I’d be better off cast as the defense lawyer. Wot say?

Serious short stories and intellectual book tags might give us the pretense of respectability, but one should never forget one’s humble beginnings. What is the blog’s real USP?, we asked ourselves, and on not finding an answer, in sheer desperation, asked Ajmeri Baba, while he was in town to solve the problems of the world. And his voice echoed through the corridors of the empty Hyatt Regency ballroom with the resounding answer — ‘Bachcha, it is a very special brand of mindless nonsense mixed with pseudo-seriousness. That is what you do best.‘ Humbled by his gyaan and out of gratitude for the man, we promptly suggested a tagline for his business — ‘Aaj-meri baba, kal teri baba‘. Alas, he failed to see the brilliance of it. Hmpfh. Oh well.

When I started my blog, I imagined it to be a place where I could be myself without letting the role I was playing, influence it. No compulsions to be the exasperating daughter, annoying sister, curious friend or nosy neighbor. Just my thoughts, expressed my way.

I thought a blog resolved the dichotomies we face as individuals. It blurred the lines between what we revealed to people and what we hid from them. We no longer separated our public and private lives. A blog overlapped these spaces to an extent. If Rao sir from class VI were present here, he would have interjected with — ‘Waitt, aii weel yekshplain with pickchar. You seeee, the red circle is public space. Blue circle, private space. And intersection set — purple flower petal shape, that is a blog.‘ Yes, we had a lot of bahaaron phool barsaao-ing in classes VI and VII. But you get the drift.

But now, as time has passed, I am more aware of the fact that I don’t always shoot my mouth off and say things like I was sharing a private thought with myself. When someone pisses me off, I don’t tell them how I’d like to boil them in oil, hang them upside down from a tree, paint them like a voodoo doll and do an African victory dance chanting —? jumbaaye agumbaye yaa aaygo aaygo aaygo. I visualize it in Eastmancolor, with twenty-four track stereophonic sound. I imagine being dressed like Sridevi in a jungle outfit, with a hibiscus phulwa coyly tucked in my hair, fluttering my two-inch long eyelashes while I do the dance. But, but, but — I don’t express it. Instead, I find myself thinking before I write, because I know I am being read and watched. So the dichotomy, albeit a different kind, is still in place.

In that sense, a blog is not just an online journal. As bloggers, we don’t simply write. We write for an audience. It doesn’t mean we necessarily pander to them. Well, sometimes we do, but that’s just because we luuuve you, don’t we precious? But we write, hoping to be read and knowing we are being read. Every blogger, no matter what they say, started their site because they want other people to read what they have to say. So, say what you will about ‘self-expression‘ and give the highfalutin spiel about how ‘I write only to give vent to my own feelings, I don’t care if anyone reads it‘ but at the end of the day, a blog is not just about introspection, it is also about performance. It isn’t navel-gazing alone, it is as much navel-baring.

So my conclusion — All bloggers hope to be Shilpa Shetty one day. Wait, I will yekshplain. This time, sadly, not with pickchar. You see, bloggers are like the sidey extras dancing behind the heroine in a Hindi film. The heroines, of course, are the A-list bloggers, while the sideys behind them are the ones hoping to make it big someday. So that brigade of tummy-baring starlets dancing behind the heroine — that’s us. Yes, this includes you men too. You wear those clingy transparent black shirts and dance in studio rain, so you’re just as bad. We’re all in the same boat. A bunch of bloggers, diligently baring our navels and souls, each hoping to get noticed, hoping to be the next Shilpa Shetty. Aw c’mon lets face it, when it comes to navel-baring, there’s not many who do a better job than her. Wot say?